


Restricted Freedom

by SnowStormSkies



Series: Honour and Obey [2]
Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub, Enemas, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Power Play, Spanking, Total Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowStormSkies/pseuds/SnowStormSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To both Bill and Tom, control is key; it's how they work together.</p><p>Bill takes it, without or without permission, over everything from clothes to food to songs to bedtime. Tom gives it, freely and wholehearted to his brother - what Bill thinks is best for him is best; whether it is girls, outfits, where they eat or sleep. How they have sex.</p><p>He is not Master, he is not Sir. He is Bill, and Tom loves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was in response to the kink_meme request where it is also posted.
> 
> _I'd love Tom to be fully mentally under Bill's control._
> 
> _They'd look outside like we see them, but behind the scenes Bill controls everything in Tom's life and Tom is happy about that. You can choose how far or in which things you want to focus on in this fic, but basically total control over everything (like Tom's looks, clothes, using bathroom, everything). Bill also controls Tom's relationships and sex life (chooses Tom's gf's, random sex partners...) and in their own not-so-platonic relationship. Tom is happy to give all his control to Bill and it makes him feel safe. Sometimes Bill plays with Tom's OCD (messes things up, re-arrange things like Tom's need to color match) and it causes Tom anxiety, but in the end they are really happy together like this._
> 
> _This is not about an abusive relationship, but very loving and caring one._

Patience and Rewards

~*~  


 

 

The music is pounding, the lights flashing, the beat pumping through Tom’s veins. It feels good against his skin; the heat of bodies, the dampness in the air, the smoke swirls in the lights.

It’s exactly what Bill wanted.

Across from him, Georg’s eyes are dark and he’s restless, searching the crowd below their VIP area for someone in particular - Tom sees him go from the bar area, to the dance floor, to the booths and he grins as he settles on a girl; conquest chosen.

“See you back at the hotel!” He shouts over the din of the music and beside Tom, Bill nods, a graceful hand waving him goodbye. Gustav nods, points wordlessly to the floor below and then he’s gone too, trying to find a girl too.

No doubt they’ll both be successful at it.

Tom is left alone with Bill - the security at the door is on the other side, and the window is one way glass - this is their own little world and Bill is in charge; he orders drinks for the both of them from the waiter who escorted them up here, and Tom settles back into the seat, wondering what will happen tonight.

On the other side of the mirrored window, the club is pounding, the bass causing the glass to vibrate and Tom looks down - tries to see if there’s anyone down there he recognises apart from his band mates but there’s nobody - it’s a mass of bodies, seething and undulating, bright lights scattered across the floor and over people’s faces.

“See anything you like?” Bill asks, slipping a hand around his neck. Tom shakes his head, “Nobody? Aww, come on, Tom. Play with me.” He purrs and Tom shivers. So Bill wants that today?

“I don’t know.” He says, and Bill hold up a shot glass to his lips, and he tips his head back, swallows the vodka in one. “I - there’s so many...” There must be at least a hundred girls down there at least, maybe more and Tom can’t just pick one. He wants them all.

“Come here.” Bill slides out of the booth, holds his hand out to Tom who takes it, lets himself be dragged out of his seat and over to the window.

Bill presses him against the railing, crowds in behind him and Tom is glad of the one way mirror. He’s hard, pressed against the glass like this, and Bill is in the same condition as he forces another shot against Tom’s lips and it clinks on the lip ring there.

Bill’s lip ring.

“Drink.” He whispers and Tom feels the touch of tongue against the shell of his ear. He opens his mouth, lets Bill empty the glass and he swallows obediently.

Bill’s hand around his throat tightens ever so slightly as a reward.

“Good boy.” he hears, “Shall I pick for you?” Tom nods. Bill’s always picked his girls for him, always. Right from the start - his very first girlfriends, handpicked by Bill before he even knew he needed one and tonight is no different. He trusts Bill. Knows he’ll only pick the best for him. Bill has a knack for it. “How about... her?” A French nail points to the bar, the only fully lit area below. “The red head, in the yellow.” Tom peers down, trying to spot her and then - yes, her... She’s tall, willowy - he likes the look of her already; she looks feisty but then -

“Or that one?” Bill taps the glass over another girl’s head, a girl with blue hair and wearing a little black dress, oh the - yes... Little hint of wildness come out to play, nobody wears blue hair when they’re a wallflower, and Tom likes girls with that wild side... “Or what about... her...?” Bill points to the booth over the other side, to a woman and she is a woman, she got to be at least ten years older than Tom but she’s hot as fuck.

He wants her.

“Do you want a girl tonight?” Bill moans in his ear, pressing his cock into Tom’s backside and he can feel that Bill is hard. “Do you want a little girl or do you want a woman?”

“W-woman.” Tom stutters. He’s getting bored of girls who don’t know what they’re doing - he wants someone who knows how to treat a guy properly, not have to be walked through everything. Bill knows that - they’ve had so many talks in the few months; working out Tom’s changing preferences and what Bill can do help him with them.

David nearly died though when he first saw Tom with a woman, not a teenager.

“Good boy,” Bill croons in his ear, and Tom feels his hand sneak down, grip at his cock. He’s hard as a rock already but...

“The ring?” Bill asks.

“Still on.” He hasn’t taken it off and Bill knows that but he’s asking for Tom to confirm it anyway. He’s been wearing a cock ring for days now, impatient for Bill to let him come but he can’t, not without permission.

“Very good boy,” Bill says, kissing at that spot just behind his ear, and Tom’s knees threaten to buckle. He has to hold onto the bar in front of him. “Such a good boy; you might even get a reward tonight.”

“R-Really?” God, he would love to come.

“Mmm. Keep up your good behaviour and we’ll see.” Bill voice is full of promise and Tom sighs. Not now, but soon. He can live with that. “Here.” A third shot, this one darker and when Bill tips it down his throat, Tom tastes the fire of whiskey. He gasps and Bill chuckles softly in his ear as he turns away, puts the glass down. “Strong stuff, hmm?”

“Yeah.” It’s strong but good and Tom can feel it settling in, warming his belly, making him feel hot and ready. Bill’s hands reach down for the hem of his shirt, slide underneath and Tom shudders. His hands are cold from holding the drinks, slightly wet too and Tom throws his head back, resting it on Bill’s shoulder. “Bill!” he cries out.

“Shush...” Bill whispers in his ear as he reaches up, finds Tom’s chest and then Tom bucks forward as ice cold fingers press against his nipples, pinching them gently. “Say hello Tom.” Bill chuckles, and he really can’t help it; he moans out _hello_ on autopilot, helpless as Bill rubs his thumbs over his nipples, caressing at them, and goddamnit, it’s not his fault he’s fucking sensitive and he strains for release but there’s nothing. A hand reaches down, squeezes gently at the bulge in his jeans but he bucks into it, unable to help himself. “A-ah, no. Don’t be bad.” The warning in those words is clear.

“Sorry.” Tom whispers it but he knows his brother heard. The caress on his bare belly, just flicking across the bottom of his ribs is enough to tell him that.

“Go on.” Bill licks a long stripe down his neck, and then “Go and get her. She’s waiting for someone interesting. Go and entertain her.”

“Can I?”

“Dancing, only.” Bill says and Tom likes the possessiveness in that tone; it makes him feel daring. “No removing the ring and you may not play with her... downstairs.”

Tom would pout but he’s been cooped up for too long. Dancing and grinding and rubbing is enough for him, especially if it gets him rewarded tonight.

Bill lets him out of the embrace only after thoroughly devouring his mouth, making him sigh and moan and beg for more kisses but all he gets is a slap to his backside and a shove to the door.

“Tom.” He turns back, one hand on the handle. “I’ll be watching.”

As always.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Bathing and Hopes  


 

~*~

 

 

 

In the bathroom, Bill is kneeling on the floor beside the bath, naked except for a pair of navy boxer briefs; his hand in the bath, swishing the water around. On the side, Tom sees clothes scattered across the marble countertop and he goes to sort them almost before he realises the transgression he almost made.

“May I?” He asks and Bill nods without looking around at him, fiddling with the taps to adjust the water temperature but Tom is more interested in folding the clothes, taking care to remove the socks and boxers from inside the jeans, and coiling the necklace around the several rings and bracelets. He doesn’t rush and Bill doesn’t say anything – the only sound in the room is the water running. And then Bill speaks.

“Undress.” Tom doesn’t hesitate – he’s hot and sticky from the club and the girl – no, the _woman_ – and he’s dying to bathe and get rid of the sweat and the smell of booze on his skin. He loves clubs and bars but he’s not so fond of the clean-up operation he has to go through every time he comes out of one.

Bill turns to watch him as he strips down, leaning on the edge of the bath to get to his feet and as Tom unfastens his belt, a piece of paper floats out from the waist band of his jeans. Bill stares at it with a dark look in his eyes but it’s not anger. Tom knows anger when he sees it but this isn’t it. It’s… _satisfaction… pride… pleasure._ He’s seen it all before and he knows why.

Bill likes Tom collecting numbers, collecting names, collecting women – it’s all good to him, as long as Tom doesn’t stray. But why would he? He gets everything he needs right here, right now. The skirt is just... added extra, sometimes working off steam, sometimes building it up, sometimes it’s just fun. Other times, it’s just comfort, being reassured of his own skills and prowess – Bill always picks the right sort of woman or girl that he needs to fulfil his needs at that time…

But at the end of the day, it’s always Bill who will share his bed.

“Good boy.” Bill praises as he hands over the slip of paper – it’s nice note paper, and her handwriting is bold and confident – exactly the kind of calligraphy he’d expect from a woman who pressed herself to him, whispered the most filthy things in his ear, running her fingers down his chest and finding his nipples straight away.

He didn’t know how she knew but she had him dancing on her fingers within seconds and he’d stayed like that for the full hour he was with her on the dance floor, rocking into her and she had been perfect.

Bill had watched the entire time.

Now inside the bathroom, there’s no girl and her ghost is gone – the only sign that she even existed to him now is the faint lingering perfume on his shirt and skin and when he neatly lays the last of his clothes on the counter top, Bill invites him forward with a wave of his hand and a smile.

He can’t help colouring as he moves closer – even though Bill is only wearing underwear, being naked is such a precarious position to be in, such a terrifyingly exposed way to be, he feels so helpless but shivers turn to anticipation and anticipation turns to sparks in his belly. Bill’s knowing smile says it all really as Tom tries to not cover himself with his hands. Bill doesn’t mind but it makes him laugh and ask Tom how he can be so shy and Tom just is shy, alright? He is when it comes to this – no sex, no flirtation on the table, just him nude and alone in front of Bill

When Bill helps him into the bath, the water is cool and gentle on his flushed skin and he knows what’s coming. Bill takes up the wash cloth in his hand and Tom obediently settles back.

Time to get rid of her for once and for all.

\--

Tom whimpers as Bill draws the cloth down his arm – hearing him sigh in fondness as Tom blushes, ducks his head low and Bill laughs even more. He’s oversensitive – but more so than normal, his constant arousal making every nerve hyperaware of every touch and trickle of water and he can’t help moaning a little as Bill torments him with the pale blue material over and over.

He rubs the material along Tom’s belly, pressing into the softness with strong, determined fingers to feel at what’s beneath. Tom knows what’s coming.

“Do you need an enema?”

Fuck. Tom hates them with a passion, loathes how they make him feel drained and tired and empty – but that’s only after Bill has made him hold it in for an hour or more, laying on the bed or the couch with a plug holding in the warm liquid, making him feel slow and lethargic as Bill rubs his chest, playing with his nipples to keep him half hard and dazed but not enough to let him come.

Bill likes to keep him there for ages, until he’s half crazy with want and need and his belly aches low and deep inside; only when Bill says it’s okay can Tom be helped to his feet, taken to the bathroom to let loose and be empty again. Afterwards, he feels strange, floaty and dreamy and Bill always loves him like that; confused and trusting and blindly seeking comfort.

Bill likes him to be clean, inside and out, and so every month he has to take it; lying on a towel on the bathroom floor, rocking into the air as Bill strokes his expensive manicured nails down his back and tells him that he’s such a good boy for taking it.

He screws up his face, praying that Bill won’t make him take it tonight and he hears Bill’s chuckle in the back of his head long before it reaches his ears.

“Ah, Tom…” he cooes, and Tom blushes.

If Bill said he needed it, then he’d take it but he hates them so much, wishes so often that Bill will be kind and not make him take the water and the hose and the pressure to make him clean for hours.

But tonight, Bill is kind, shaking his head in fond amusement at Tom’s embarrassment. “Not tonight then.” It does not escape Tom’s notice that Bill hasn’t ruled it out for tomorrow or the rest of the week and inside he sighs because he knows it’s coming now. “Come on, hands and knees.” Bill commands, sitting back on his heels and Tom obediently clambers around until he’s on his hands and knees just as Bill wants him.

The cloth is dipped back into the water, and then the soothing rhythm of Bill’s hand over his body and the soft swishing of the water starts to relax Tom properly. Bill hums in approval at Tom’s release of tension as he sighs. He runs his fingers over Tom’s under the water, “Good boy.”

Tom blushes at the blatant soft desire in those words.

“Spread your knees.” Bill demands and Tom does so, leaving himself wide open and exposed from behind or the side but it’s the right thing to do. “Lovely.” Bill comments and Tom sighs as he stares into the rippling water below. Out of sight, he hears Bill uncapping the shower gel, squirting in onto the cloth and he smells the clean scent of Johnsons and Johnson’s long before he should be able to.

“Wh-?”

“Shush.” Bill doesn’t even let him get a word out. “Your skin is dry.” It probably is but Bill likes it because Tom doesn’t – he’s far too tied up with the scent, so many memories of hotel rooms and tour bus bunks, and places other than home with Bill and only Bill that it makes him nervous, fluttery, half way to arousal before he knows why.

Bill doesn’t say anything else, dragging the cloth over Tom’s shoulders, under his chest, onto his belly and Tom can’t help his hips rocking as Bill drifts too close to his dick. He whimpers, needing that hand to go lower, to touch him where he’s desperate but Bill just sighs again.

“No, Tom.” He reprimands as he carries on and Tom feels like crying. It’s been five days, and he’s been hard for most of that time, needing release but he can’t. He’s still horny from the club and the girl, and his cock is more than half way hard, aching and raw.

He whimpers again, rocking in place but he just gets a slap to his bottom and a stern reprimand of “Behave,” from Bill and he just wants to come because it hurts so much now, he’s got fucking grey balls, never mind blue.

“Stop it,” Bill warns but Tom aches and hurts and it takes Bill’s hand on his face, pulling him around to stare into his twin’s eyes to make him stop. “Be good, Tom, and I might let you come tonight - would you like that?”

Tom nods, because he’s hard and it hurts and he just needs release and Bill’s thumb on his bottom lip is soft and soothing.

“Use your words for now.” Bill reminds him.

“Yes. Yes, I would like to come – _please,_ Bill.” He’s perilously close to whining and Bill loathes that but apparently his desperation got through more than his words.

“Alright. But you have to be good for now,” There’s a caution in those words but Tom doesn’t care. He’s going to come and Bill is still pleased with the night’s pull.

He waits for Bill to finish up but his mind is already through the door and in the large king size bed and the bottle of lube Bill had set upon the nightstand as a warning for tonight’s activities.


	3. Chapter 3

Denied and Frustrated

 

~*~

 

“What!”  
  
“Don’t speak to me in that voice, Tom.” Bill’s voice is stern but Tom doesn’t care. They had been really getting into it – Tom had already jacked Bill off and they had been kissing and making out. Bill had reached for the lube but then he’d held back, tried to torment Tom even more with yet more kisses and licks and he’d reached down for Tom’s nipples, trying to play with them, and that’s just not fucking fair on a guy when it’s been so long already.   
  
He snarls up at Bill who glares back at him and they’re in a stalemate. Tom needs to come, and Bill won’t let him, Bill needs him to submit and he won’t do it. The tension builds and Tom tries to speak to Bill through their bond but the only thing he find is a wall of anger that he doesn’t dare try to challenge.   
  
He breaks first, as they both knew he would.   
  
He’s whining faster than he thought possible, his voice needy and high. “Five fucking days, Bill - it hurts and I - fuck!” His dick twitches, and he’s had it up to here with being a good boy and doing what he’s told because for the last five days he’s been good, even handjobbed Bill off a time or two, and it’s gotten him precisely jackshit in the orgasm department. He leans back, reaches down for his cock because Bill’s taken his hands away to put them on his hips – the better to scold Tom. Fuck the rules, he’s aching and hard and he needs to come and you know what, screw Bill as well because he’s a grown man nearly and should be allowed to raise his own pleasure -   
  
But Bill isn’t having that at all, and there’s a hand on his face, pulling him to look at his Bill’s dark eyes and - “Remove your hand. Now.” Bill sounds pissed but Tom doesn’t care.   
  
“Fuck you.” He’s tired, his cock aches and he needs to come so fuck Bill with a rusty screwdriver, he’s going to do it.   
  
Then there’s a hand on his nipple, wrenching it around and another on his ear, pulling that up too and it’s not sexy, it fucking hurts and he’s almost sobbing with the pain mixing with the frustration and it hurts, goddamnit - he’s begging Bill to let go immediately.   
  
So much for being able to take the punishment.   
  
The hand on his chest pulls his skin tight, and Tom struggles to follow it as Bill pulls up and away from his body. His left hand goes to Bill’s wrist, his right clutches his dick in reflexive pain, holding onto it like a comfort thing but there’s no comfort to be found there. He’s always been oversensitive and something like this is hell on earth for him – too much pain, way too fast.   
  
But Bill is relentless and unmerciful as he pulls Tom’s head down to the pillow by his ear at the same time he forces Tom to arch up from the pull on his chest. Tom closes his eyes but tears leak out without his permission anyway.  
  
As the first tears hit the pillow, Bill’s hand on his ear slowly releases and he speaks. “Let go.” Bill’s voice is calm and cold and Tom sobs again as he lets his hand drop off his cock because that’s the most obvious cause for Bill’s anger right now. Beneath his other hand, Bill’s pulse is strong and quick, and Tom senses anger and frustration in the beat. “And the other one. Flat on the bedspread. Now. Both of them.”  
  
He’s got both hands pressed to the bedspread before he even knows what’s going on, his cock bobbing up from his groin, angry red and twitching - he was so close and he vaguely entertains the notion that Bill will let him come anyway and Bill’s hand is already there…But his fingers are flicking against the crown and _oh holy mother of God, that hurts please stop Bill - let go, don’t...._   
  
Tom cries out in pain from Bill’s agonising flick and there’s nothing left to say but cry from all the conflicting emotions coursing through him He’s weeping in frustration and not a little bit of pain and a lot of desperation because he’s been on edge for five days and he just wants to come down from the tension high he’s on right now.   
  
But Bill still has something to say. “I said no. What part of that didn’t you understand?” and his hand is still on Tom’s tormented chest but it’s gradually releasing the tight grip, and Tom’s crying doesn’t abate one little bit.  
  
“Please - _oh_ \- Bill!”   
  
“I said no. I told you to wait. Why didn’t you?” Bill’s fingers are now just stroking his chest, softly brushing over the reddened, abused skin of his nipple but it’s not as soothing as it should be because all he can think about is what he’s just done. “Hmmm? Answer me, Tom.”  
  
“Because it hurts. I’m so desperate, please - just once...” Tom is pleading, and he knows it’s useless but Bill is still not letting him come and he just _needs_ it. Not want; it’s kind of gone beyond mere want right now.   
  
“No, Tom.” Bill looks determined and there’s anger behind his eyes, anger and sadness and disappointment. and Tom feels like crying all over again. He’s just fucked up in front of Bill, done the worst thing he possibly could have done and now he’s got to pay for it.   
  
Bill reaches down, checks on the cock ring but Tom didn’t get anywhere near close enough to removing it. “How long have you had this on?” He asks and Tom struggles to articulate what he knows the answer to be; the pain in his chest is nothing compared to the pain from his dick and it’s making his brain jumpy and difficult to focus.   
  
“Five days?” he eventually gets out and even though it sounds more like a question than the answer it is, Bill nods.   
  
“Then you can have another three for trying to remove it... and a week for jacking yourself off when I said no.”  
  
Tom throws his head, groans out loud, and reaches for a pillow to smother his face in. Ten whole days. He’ll go fucking insane, he knows it, because him and chastity are like fire and ice – sparks fly and he always ends up crying and begging Bill for mercy. He drums his feet under the duvet in frustration as he screams into the pillow. But Bill doesn’t like that because it’s being rude and he gets a smack to his thigh for his pains. The sharp sting hurts, pulling him out of his own head for a moment and he pushes the pillow down to stare at Bill, tears still making his sight hazy and Bill is just a cockblocking blur beside him. He waits for Bill’s next words with a sense of dread.   
  
“Ten days with that on for your troubles, and an enema every three days.”  
  
“No- Bill - please, I can’t-” He can’t take an enema that often and not be allowed to come, he’ll go mental by the sixth day and Bill knows it. There’s another smack to his thigh but he doesn’t care - he won’t do it and there’s nothing Bill can do to make him-   
  
He gets another slap to his thigh and Bill grabs his chin, pulling him round to face him properly. His voice is low and severe, and Tom knows he means business now. As if he didn’t before. “Let me make one thing very clear, Tom. I said... ten days. I can very easily make it twenty. Or a month.”  
  
Fuck Bill. Fuck the cock ring. Fuck the rules. Tom can’t think of anything he’d like to do more than jack off right now and he’d love to tell Bill to get the hell off his case but he can’t. That’s what he wants to say but he knows that Bill won’t let him, won’t allow him to get out from under the rules and regulations that have been growing and developing for years now. If he tries to protest, he’ll end up with his cock in the cage and wearing a plug all day as well and then he really will be in trouble. Bill is usually fair and generous but this isn’t anywhere near fair or generous and he grabs hold of the pillow, pushes his face into it and tries to bite out his frustration.   
  
It doesn’t work.   
  
“Don’t be so silly next time, Tom.” Bill sighs, runs a hand down Tom’s side. “You were such a good boy tonight. What changed?”  
  
Tom shrugs because he doesn’t know why he stopped being able to take it and tried to seize control but Bill pinches his side as a warning. He likes an answer when he poses a question and Tom raises the pillow just enough to be heard. “I don’t know.” He answers.   
  
“You were so good - I was going to let you come. Why did you disobey me?”   
  
“Dunno,” Tom mutters, allowing Bill to take the pillow from his face but rolling to face the wall opposite, his back to his brother. He can’t look at Bill at the moment, doesn’t want to let Bill see the frustrated expression he has because in the mood Bill is in now, he’ll take it for insolence and there’s a harsh punishment for that behaviour – one he doesn’t want now. “Guess I was just too close.”  
  
“Tell me next time. Let me know what you’re feeling.”  
  
He did let Bill know exactly how he felt – what the fuck else could a hand reaching for his dick be? - but Bill obviously doesn’t care and Tom ignores the fact that he himself didn’t use the right words to let Bill know to stop. He tries not to use those words as a general rule anyway – the ones Bill taught him to use right at the beginning when they started doing this – the ones that would stop everything in its tracks – because it means weakness. It means…  
  
It means throwing the towel in.   
  
And he did it anyway, by ignoring Bill and trying to touch his own dick. He broke the three core rules to their relationship by doing that; smashed right through, and left them shattered in the dust.   
  
Rule, the first: Listen to Bill. Tom should trust that Bill knows what’s best for him, whether it’s about sex, food, clothes, music, or girls. Bill knows what he needs and what he doesn’t and he should believe in that. If Bill didn’t want him to come then, he should have just accepted it for what it was and not tried to go around his instruction.   
  
Rule, the second: Don’t disobey. Bill lays out rules for his Tom’s benefit and Tom should remember that and not disobey. It will only end in disaster. As exemplified by the last ten minutes.   
  
Rule, the third: Accept punishment without complaint; don’t try to avoid it. When Bill lays down the law and decides on a punishment for him, Tom should accept what he has done wrong and apologise. He should also take his punishment properly and not try to get out of it. Bill doesn’t like to punish him anymore than Tom likes to receive it and trying to get out of it just hurts them both more in the end.   
  
There are more rules, some outright and explicit in their details, others more subtle and difficult to describe but they all relate back in some way to listening to Bill, not being disobedient and taking the punishment without complaint.   
  
Tom’s never managed to break all three in less than an hour before, and he senses his punishment is going to be all the harsher for it. A very large part of him is shouting that he deserves it but another part is demanding his cock be satisfied tonight.   
  
Shut up, he tells that part of himself, sighing as his dick bounces mournfully between his thighs, neglected and hurting.   
  
He feels Bill climb into the bed beside him, pushing the duvet out the way and then reaching under them to get to Tom’s boxers, pulling them up from his ankles. “Lift up,” Bill commands and Tom does so, sulkily and the soft cool material is soon back where it belongs, around his hips. His pyjama trousers follow the same way and when he’s fully clothed below the waist, Bill pats him right on the dick and says, “You brought this on yourself.”  
  
“Did not,” Tom mutters but he knows it’s true. Bill probably would have let him come tonight if Tom had held back a little more, been a little better in control of himself for just a few more minutes.   
  
There’s a warning hand on his backside and Tom tenses. Bill has never been above using his own hand to punish Tom when he needs to, never been above making him bend over the end of a bed or a chair and using the belt or the paddle and they both know it.   
  
“Don’t be rude, Tom.” Bill cautions him and Tom sighs into the pillow, feeling his cock throb angrily under the material of his boxers and pyjamas but not willing to risk even the slightest push with his hand. Bill’s voice tells him that another transgression, however small will mean a serious spanking or even a session with the belt. “Your first enema will be tomorrow.”  
  
“Yes, Bill.” He acquiesces without a fight.   
  
“Now go to sleep.” There’s an arm over his waist and Bill settles against his back and Tom hugs his pillow and tries to ignore his aching dick.   
  
He wishes Bill would let him come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, extended uses of cockrings is VERY bad for your dick and should not actually be used. Chastity devices and cockrings are very different. 
> 
> This is fantasy though, and blackened gangrenous cock isn't a factor. Or is it?


	4. Chapter 4

 

**Disobedience and Bathrooms  
**

**~*~**

 

 

 

The next day is hell on earth.

Tom is so horny, he can barely remember his own name, he struggled with the rehearsals and when they were waiting in the car to get to the next interview, he could barely stop himself from crying from frustration running into pain as his dick rubbed against his jeans.

Bill’s hand on his was the only thing that stopped him from reaching into his boxers and jacking off.

They’re now waiting for the photographer to set up for the photo shoot and Tom is left lurking in a make-up room, trying to avoid talking to people because he’s so damn horny he’s likely to start humping random stranger’s legs or something.

He sits on a couch, his PSP thrown beside him on the cushion because he can’t focus on it long enough to actually play anything and he has to resist the urge to start rocking to get some gentle relief that way. His knees are as wide apart as they will go - he’s trying to minimize the amount of contact his cock gets in the vain hope it will stop him from getting hard again. It’s not working and he’s got a raging hard on like there’s no tomorrow.

He already kicked out half a dozen people from the room, claiming he needed quiet time because he wasn’t feeling well and his pale face and dark circles made them agree to it; even David told him to get some rest before he keels over.

It’s not enough to keep his brother away though.

“How are you doing?”

Bill shuts the door softly behind him, his face made-up and ready for the camera; his clothes are brand new, safety pinned all in the back to make them fit better.

Tom doesn’t answer, choosing to look away from the door. He’s angry and frustrated at the situation and he refuses to even acknowledge Bill’s arrival into the room. He knows he’s being rude and bad but he doesn’t care. He gets a sigh for his actions.

“Don’t be like that.” Bill says, walking over to him, but Tom keeps his face turned away. He doesn’t want to talk to Bill - partly out of a childish sense of revenge at the person who is the apparent cause of his aching groin, and partly because if he looks at Bill, he’ll probably do something really embarrassing like start apologising again, or even crying out of desperation. He might even go to his knees and he is nowhere near okay for that. He’s not at the point of losing it all quite yet, thanks very much.

When Bill doesn’t leave him alone, lingering in front of the mirror to adjust his hair with a careful hand, Tom tries a different tack to get away from Bill, “Can I go to the bathroom, please?” He demands, and Bill snorts in disbelief.

“Not until you answer me properly.”

“Fuck you, Bill. I need to piss.” He does - he’s been avoiding talking to Bill pretty much all morning, at least since after breakfast and consequently, he hasn’t been able to ask to go to the toilet.

Bill made that rule when they were twelve – long before their relationship turned fully sexual but long after Tom realised Bill’s claim of authority over him. He’s so dependent on Bill for even the smallest things, and normally he’d love it, take relief and comfort in the fact that Bill cares enough to know what’s going on with him even when it comes to something so… basic. But it’s times like these that makes him so frustrated and determined to be bad because he’d like one day to go have a piss without having to ask permission like Georg and Gustav can. He has to ask and sometimes, like now, he’s desperate and his bladder is full and he’d like to go. And Bill is being an asshat.

“So answer the question.” Bill stands in front of him, grabs his chin and makes him look into eyes that are identical to his own. “How are you feeling?”

“I hurt.” It does - it aches and there’s a growing feeling of desperation rising but he’s okay on that front for the moment. The need to piss is far more urgent.

But Bill won’t let him get away with that - “How do you hurt?” He asks, already dropping one hand to rest on Tom’s knee and Tom knows he’s one step away from marching Tom off to the bathroom, locking them both in a cubicle and having a look himself. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.

“Balls ache. I need to piss. I keep getting hard.” He keeps it short, concise, but honest.

“I see.” Stepping between Tom’s spread legs, Bill reaches for his caps, lifting his heavy dreads off his shoulders as he pulls them off. Bill’s the only person in the world allowed to do that, the only person who is permitted to remove Tom’s headgear and it’s at times like this that Tom wishes he could revoke that privilege because he feels even more naked without them.

He’s face to face with Bill’s belly, and he leans forward, wanting to rest his head on it but he’s pushed back.

“Stand up.”

“Don’t want to.” He mumbles but he’s already moving, rising to his feet to stand in front of his brother, who encourages him to lean forward, puts his arms around him and Tom sighs. A hug. Great. Not what he needs but he takes it, wrapping his arms around Bill. “It hurts, Bill.” he moans when he feels a hand pressing into his groin, clinically squeezing at the prominent bulge there.

Bill nods, strokes his fingers down the back of his neck. “Maybe you’ll listen to me next time when I tell you no, hmm?” He says and Tom sighs, drops his head to rest on Bill’s shoulder. “It’s only ten days, Tom. You’ll make it.”

His hands reach out without his permission, grabbing onto Bill’s belt, wrapping in the loops there to pull his brother even closer and Tom moans a little. “It hurts, Bill. I hurt.” He does. Between his legs has been one nonstop hurt all day, aching and throbbing and it’s the fact that he’s responsible for it all on his own - if only he’d fucking waited another thirty seconds - that makes the pain all the sharper.

“You’re on punishment, Tom. It’s not meant to be nice.” But Bill’s hands are tracing down his neck, around his ears, and Tom knows that Bill will keep on doing this as long as he needs it. He settles into the embrace, breathing in the scent of Bill and just letting it wash over him. It feels good, he feels safe, and he can’t help sighing and feeling some of the tension drain out of him. He’s tired, and horny as fuck but Bill’s scent is enough to take the edge off of both for now.

Soon, almost without realising it, he’s shifting, rocking from foot to foot, back and forth as his bladder starts protesting. “I need to go, Bill.” He whispers, hoping that Bill will let him out of this hug sometime soon.

“Do you?”

Tom starts, tries to draw back but Bill’s arms are stronger than they look. “Yes. I do.” What the hell - when he says he has to **go** , he has to fucking go and he’s _this_ close to losing it.

“Come on then.” Bill’s got a hand in his, pulling him along, and they’re nearly at the door before Tom realises what’s going.

“I can find them myself, you know....”

“I can’t trust you.” Bill says, flatly. “You want the bathroom, you get an escort.”

Great. That’s just great.

Bill holds his hand the entire way, and thank God they don’t meet anyone, but Tom is constantly aware of the feeling of being escorted. Bill is one step ahead of him and moving quickly, and Tom is left shuffling his feet to catch up, and it feels like nothing more than being a naughty school boy. The bathroom is a unisex disabled one two floors down, with a thick wood door and Bill ushers him inside quickly. When the door slams behind them both, Tom realises that when Bill says _escort_ he means precisely that. Apparently, he fully intends to _escort_ his brother right to the porcelain throne itself.

“Do what you need to do.” Bill commands, propping himself against the door.

Tom colours, shifting from side to side. They’ve never done this before - he’s never done this before, peeing with Bill in the room.

Sure, he’s always asked to go because that’s just how they work; he asks Bill somehow - sometimes he has to text if they’ve got company or it’s a brush of his hand on Bill’s that lets him know what Tom needs because interviewers and stage managers and outsiders wouldn’t understand. Although Bill’s never said no outright, he sometimes makes Tom wait, or makes a note of it if he thinks that Tom’s not going enough/too often because if there’s one thing they’ve learnt when touring it’s that it’s really fucking easy to get sick. But he’s always told Tom to never wait until he’s desperate because there might come a time when Bill says no for more than just a five minute wait; the day that that happens, Tom is officially going to fucking cry because the thought of struggling not piss his oversized jeans is a terrifying one.

But to do it with Bill in the fucking room? No. No. He can’t do this.

“Bill, _please_.”

“Tom, _what_?” Bill drags a nail file out of his pocket, starts buffing at the acrylics on his nails. “Hurry up and go or are you just pissing me about? Pun not intended.”

“I... I can’t.” Tom’s holding onto the metal hand bar on the wall with one hand, trying not to panic. His other hand is wound up in his t-shirt and he’s feeling sick. He’s not ready for this - this next step in their ...their kind of relationship.

“You’re okay, Tom. Seriously.” Bill smiles at him, “Just... think of waterfalls. Rivers. Swimming pools.”

“It’s not that, Bill. It’s...”

“It’s me. I know. Just... turn around, drop ‘em a little bit and relax. Pretend I’m not here.” Bill shrugs. “Go on. We do actually have a job to do today...”

“I _can’t_.” He can’t just drop his trousers and whizz on cue. He’s not a fucking performing monkey.

“Tom.” Bill clicks his fingers, makes him look up. “You can either go now, in that toilet, or you can wait until after the shoot, the interview, and the van ride back to the hotel for a pee in the hotel bathroom .. Three, maybe four hours, if you’re lucky.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You’re either going in that toilet, or you can wait but either way, I’m going to be in there with you.”

“…Why?”

“Because you want to jack off and since I can’t trust you, you get an escort.”

“Just… Leave me alone.” Tom’s rocking from foot to foot, his bladder one giant ball of desperation in his belly but Bill shakes his head.

“Either you can pee here, or at the hotel in a few hours. Can you wait that long?”

“Yes,” Tom says mutinously.

“ _Really_?” Bill raises his eyebrow and Tom knows he’s hardly a convincing liar at the best of times, and this is _not_ the best of times.

“No.” He sighs.

“So turn around, drop your pants, and piss. Pretend I’m not here.”

Tom huffs, turns on his heel, faces the toilet. His hands shake as he reaches down to pull up his shirts in order to find his fly and button, and it takes him two tries to pull them apart. He’s not sure why he’s damn scared but he is - it means something, this, because it’s one less thing he hides from Bill and he hesitates with his hand reaching into his boxers for his dick.

“You’re okay, Tom.” Bill reassures from behind him and Tom takes a deep breath. It’s nothing. They’ve shared baths, showers, beds... this is just one step further. He can do this.

Even with Bill’s reassurance, it takes him nearly ten minutes to actually calm down enough to piss. Bill stays quiet, letting him deal with it in his own time, and his own way and just carries on buffing his nails as Tom finally breathes out and releases his bladder. He doesn’t even comment on the moan of relief.

“Good boy,” he says when Tom is finished, refastening his zip but Bill’s suddenly wrapped against his back and reaching around him to do up the two buttons of his flies before he gets to it. “I’m pleased with you.” He presses a kiss to Tom’s neck and it takes an incredible amount of will power to not turn around and grab onto Bill, pressing his hips into Bill’s to get some nice frot going.

He’s a good boy though, and not just because Bill said so; he likes to be good for Bill and this is just another way of being that. He rests his head on Bill’s shoulder, waits for the hands on his waistband to disappear and hopes that Bill doesn’t intend to make this a regular thing.

Bill spins him around, smooths Tom’s shirts back down over his jeans, and points him over to the sink. Tom obediently scuffs his way over, and begins the long process of cleaning his hands.

Five minutes later, they’re ready to step outside again but not before Bill delivers a soft kiss to Tom’s lips, licking at his lip ring and then shooing him out the door into the corridor and towards the photoshoot with Georg and Gustav.

His dick goes from barely on his radar to front and centre faster than he has time to breathe.

Fuck you, Bill.


	5. Chapter 5

 

**Pacing and Hairbrushes  
**

**~*~**

 

Tom checks the clock for the third time in as many minutes. Time hasn’t stopped, it’s fucking moving backwards and he’s so dreading the next hour and a half that he wishes he could fucking skip the whole bloody night now.

He’s desperate to get out of here, but he knows that if he did decide to run, he’d end up absolutely destroying any chance of getting out of this punishment, he’d end up with an enema every night until he’s twenty, and his bottom would be red enough to light up Amsterdam. All of it.

Two hours ago they arrived at their hotel for tonight, ate dinner in Georg’s room as they tried to unwind a little from the tension of the day and Tom had enjoyed himself, forgotten all about what was about to happen because he was tired and a little hazy from over eating. So when Bill had bid the other two goodnight, Tom had followed in his wake, eagerly awaiting bed and cuddles. Sex might have been off the table for now but cuddles? Never.

Only when he got back to the room, a few minutes behind Bill, he’d not found a turned down bed, and Bill rooting through their suitcases for pyjamas. Instead, he’d found Bill pulling the fucking enema kit out of his suitcase, searching for the tub of Vaseline and the look on his face said it all. Tom wasn’t getting out of it, come hell or high water.

Now, Bill’s in the bathroom, moving stuff around and Tom knows, he fucking knows what’s going to happen and he doesn’t want it - wants no part of what Bill is laying out on the floor. He’s pacing the carpet, reaching out to touch the bathroom door handle before pulling his hand back with a wince and a sigh before he starts another circuit of the room, pacing himself into worry and shakes and stress. He’s earned this, it’s the price he has to pay for disobeying Bill but he can’t stand what’s about to happen.

He’s not sure about the people who get off on it, and believe him, he’s done enough research about them, trying to prove to Bill that ramming litres of warm water up his backside is not worth the pain and aggravation, but he can’t stand them. He hurts, his belly aches, his spine thrums with a dull pain when Bill has him full up tight. He can’t ever seem to breathe or relax and it’s endless. Twenty minutes is tough, an hour is fucking terrible, ninety minutes is at the limit of his endurance normally. If and only if Bill has managed to work him into the right state between drifting and anchored, and he’s been prepared properly can he manage that full hour and a half.

The bathroom door opens.

Bill steps out, wearing a pair of black cotton trousers and one of his old concert t-shirts, and Tom can see flashes of the star on his belly as he moves. “Undress.” The command is spoken quietly but Tom hears the urge to submit to it as well as he ever has done. But he doesn’t want to – he can’t allow himself to submit. Not tonight.

“Please, Bill!” he begs and there’s a moment of silence before Bill steps into the room properly, looking incredulous.

“What did you say?”

“Please. I’ll do ...anything.” He would too - anything to get out of what he knows is coming. “I … I don’t want to Bill - please -”

“Tom.” Bill cuts right across his protests, silencing him with a look. “What’s got into you?”

He shuffles in place, looking anywhere but at Bill because the truth is not one he wants to say because he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. Once upon a time, he would have obeyed without any hesitation, but he can’t seem to stop himself from being rude and back talking and not doing what he should anymore.

But he’s never tried to get out of it as much as this before.

“Nothing - I just... please, don’t make me, Bill, I don’t want -”

“You’ll do as you’re told.” Bill says, bluntly but his eyes are narrowing and a frown is forming. Tom shakes his head, rubs his hands together. If Bill will just stop, let him explain why, he’s sure that they can work this out - maybe he doesn’t have to take it every three days, because...

“Please, I can’t Bill - I don’t want..”

“You’ll do as you’re bloody well told, Tom.” Bill snaps and it’s loud and unpleasant in the stillness of the room but Tom won’t give up yet. If Bill just listens to him, he can prove his point and then they can just go to bed and snuggle and shit.

But while he’s been talking, Bill’s moved and it’s not in a direction that Tom wanted. At all.

“Come here.” Bill is now standing in front of the dresser chair, pointing at it, paddle brush in hand from the dresser top. “Now, Tom.”

His hands bunch up in his t-shirt, and he moans helplessly. He wasn’t trying to get a spanking; he was just trying to stop what he hated and now he’s made Bill mad with him - what the fuck went wrong...?

He should have just shut up and taken it like a good boy, that’s what went wrong.

“You have ten seconds. If you aren’t here by then, for every second you delay, I’ll add on another ten minutes with the enema. Make your choice.” Bill’s voice is firm and he points at the clock...

Tom reaches up, grabs his dreads and pulls because he can’t decide - he wants so much to obey Bill, to be good and do what he knows is the right thing but he can’t and then Bill says, “Five seconds,” and he curls up in on himself because he doesn’t know what to do anymore.

“That’s ten minutes extra. Twenty minutes. Thirty - Good boy.” Tom is braced over the chair; the decision made for him. He can’t bear the enema for very long but making Bill wait isn’t going to work because then he’ll just end up with it until midnight or something. He’s nowhere near in the right headspace for that.

Bill’s hands reach under his shirt, unfastening his jeans and pulling them down but it’s not a good feeling - Tom can sense the well concealed anger in the short, jerky movements and Bill doesn’t waste any time of making it feel nice. His boxers follow, pushed to his knees and his shirts are folded up to his shoulders, revealing his backside to Bill’s steely gaze. It’s not as bad as going over Bill’s knee - that’s fucking humiliation taken to an art form - but it’s pretty damn close. He has to breathe in a couple of times, brace himself against just the feeling of being exposed at his most vulnerable parts before he feels Bill’s hand on the small of his back.

“Twenty for the delay, twenty for disobeying me, and ten for backchat.” Fifty. Does he have to - “No counting. But at the end you will thank me.” Ah.

The first crack is never the worst – it’s always the third or fourth, when the pain cuts through the shock of the first two, and Bill’s fucking skilled at making that pain sharp as a fine edged blade. Tom is reduced to tears somewhere around the twenty mark, and by the forty mark, he’s in absolute hell; his backside is raw and feels blistered, and the tops of his thighs are practically on fire.

By the time Bill stops, his entire backside throbs in pain and he’s openly crying in place, rocking backwards and forwards from the soreness. It’s nothing like in the fucking stories – he’s never once got off on a spanking and they’d tried – when they were about fifteen, sixteen, they’d tried to see if it turned Tom on but the only thing that got turned on was the waterworks and that wasn’t sexy. For either of them.

 

So now, it’s punishment not pleasure and Tom tries to breathe through the hitches in his chest and the quiver in his chin. There’s no faster way to quickly and efficiently tear down his barriers because everything else that does the same takes time and equipment – but Bill could be ready to utterly destroy him standing in the middle of the autobahn in rush hour traffic with what he carries in his handbag and Tom heaves a breath as he tries to keep it under control.

“Done.” With that word, Tom knows it’s over - Bill never says it unless it is.

Bill’s hand on his shoulder orders him to turn around, to look at him properly and Tom wipes his eyes with his sleeve as he goes. Everything hurts. His face, his eyes, his bottom, his head - he hates the paddle brush but Bill maintains it’s a good punishment tool.

“What do you say?”

“T-t-thank you, Bill.” His voice is thick and he struggles to get the word out but Bill smiles, and Tom knows that all is almost forgiven. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, Tom.” Taking Tom’s hands in his, Bill lifts them to his lips, kisses them gently. “But I had to do it. You shouldn’t be rude to me, or try to get out of a punishment.”

“I- I’m sorry.” Tom hopes that if he keeps saying it, Bill will understand that he means it. Soft fingers stroke his cheeks, brushing away the tears and Tom leans into the touch without thinking.

“You’re forgiven. I punished you, and now that’s behind us.” Bill nods. “But I want you to listen to me next time. If I tell you to do something, you should do it. Immediately.”

“Yes, Bill.” It’s true. He should.

“Now. Bathroom.” Bill’s smile comes back again when Tom groans involuntarily at the thought of what awaits him inside that room and he chucks Tom under his chin. “Just think. If you’d been obedient, you’d have only got ninety minutes. Now you get a full two hours.”

“Bu- Yes, Bill.” The warning hand on his backside tells him he shouldn’t finish that sentence if he wants to sit down tomorrow.

Bill leads him to the bathroom, jeans around his knees and shuts the door softly behind them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Stripping Down and Weeping  
**

**~*~**

  
  


Inside the bathroom, it’s warm - the heater is on, and the light is soft and yellow. The air is heavy and damp; it smells like Bill’s shower gel and his shampoo and Tom can see make-up wipes in the bin under the sink.

Bill pushes him into the room further, shutting the door behind them and the silence is heavy as Tom observes the equipment that Bill has carefully laid out.

On the floor is are several big towels, put out for him to lay on and then laying on the edge of the bath - the fucking enema bag. Big, black, and shiny as well, the dark tube coiled up on top of it, like a snake.

He’s never liked snakes, anyway.

It’s a big one - six quarts at the maximum and he knows what it’s like to take all of those but he hopes that Bill won’t be doing that tonight; five takes him over the edge of pleasure and six well into painful. He’s rarely forced into that painful territory; Bill doesn’t like to cause him that much pain. But then again, he’s never gone up against Bill so much like the last few days and it’s not as though Bill has proven himself to be against taking Tom right to the edge.

God, he prays that Bill has mercy for the next few hours.

“Strip,” Bill orders him and mindful of the punishment he just copped, Tom is obedient and silent. He neatly folds his clothes, placing them on the counter top, stepping out of his jeans and setting his caps aside carefully on the marble surface. “Boxers and socks too.” Great. Completely naked, then. Sometimes Bill lets him keep a shirt on, or his boxers, but not now. Not after that little show of disobedience in there.

He strips the last of his clothing off, lays his socks neatly on top of his jeans and folds his boxers too. Bill likes him to be neat and tidy, even if he fucks with it sometimes just to make Tom panic, but it’s not out of meanness. Much.

“On your side.” Bill points to the towels on the floor. “Now, Tom.”

Tom sighs, wishes he could stop this somehow and kneels on the floor, and Bill nods in approval. A hand on his back and shoulder guides him into place so that he’s lying on his side on warm towels, still hot from the rack. He’s now uncomfortably exposed and he feels Bill’s gaze on him sear into his skin. He rests his head on the pillow of folded towels, lets the terrycloth press against his skin and comfort him from what is about to happen. .

“Good boy,” Bill says and there’s a soothing hand up his side, dipping down to pull at his nipple before leaving him be, rummaging around with the stuff on the edge of the bath.

Tom stares at the wall and obediently bends his knee as Bill’s soft hands push at him to move to the familiar position. Tom hears the unscrewing of the cap of the Vaseline, the soft slick and slide as Bill lubricates the nozzle and he clenches his eyes shut. It’s coming.

“Relax, Tom.” Bill’s voice is soft too, soft and calming but Tom flinches all the same.

“It hurts.”

“I know.” Bill’s been with him every time they’ve done this, knows how hard it is for him to open up and take the water or Bill’s fingers or even Bill’s dick. It doesn’t matter how recently they fucked, or how often Tom is told to relax he’s always tighter than a virgin and hypersensitive too and it’s been far too long for him to take it easy. “Shush, it’s okay...” He strokes one hand down Tom’s shoulder as the other rests on his buttock, and the smell of Johnson and Johnsons is overwhelming in the tiny room. “You’re okay,” Bill murmurs as he strokes along the crease of Tom’s arse, past the freshly waxed skin and just touches against his asshole but it’s a touch too soon and Tom flinches hard.

“Bill!”

“I know. Whenever you’re ready.” Bill reassures him, and the clock over the door ticks loudly as Tom struggles to relax enough. But Bill is patient and waits for his chest to stop heaving, for his face to lose the frown carved into it and slowly, oh so fucking slowly Tom lets go of the tension.

“‘Kay.” He doesn’t think he can say any more but Bill hums in approval and his fingers make quick of preparing Tom for the nozzle. It’s not prep for play and it doesn’t feel like it - Bill is too fast, too clinical - the gloves on his hands take away any real sensation of pleasure Tom might have gleaned from skin to skin contact. What’s worse is that the feel of the nozzle working its way inside him absolutely destroys any chance of a hard on.

He feels humiliated.

The water is warm, thankfully, and Bill strips off the gloves to sit beside him, pressing his thigh and hip along Tom’s back and holding his hand and rubbing down his side but Tom still feels the pressing need to cry again. He hates this feeling - his swelling abdomen, the pain-not-pain, the low ache deep inside that levels every emotional restraint he’s ever had.

He really wishes Bill hadn’t discovered enemas on the internet. Really.

It’s been in and flowing for barely fifty seconds when Tom breaks again.

“Please!” He’s begging for mercy already, his body trembling as it anticipates pain and fullness. Bill grabs his wrists as he tries to reach for his aching dick, forcing them against the floor with just one hand.

“No, Tom!” His voice is determined and harsh as he slaps the back of Tom’s thigh, hard. The impact ripples through his belly, through the water inside and he actually whimpers as he senses the water move with his rocking.

“I’m sorry, Bill, please – I am so sorry I was bad – I really am! Please make it stop!” Tom is begging, over and over but Bill doesn’t take the hose out. Instead, he keeps hushing Tom, making little _shush shush_ sounds whenever Tom tries to open his mouth and rocking him side to side to make the water move through him. “I don’t want this anymore, Bill…” He whispers as he stares across the bathroom floor.

“I know, Tom.” Bill says, and his voice is as soft as his hands as he strokes along Tom’s belly, down around his aching dick, up over the stinging red patch on his thigh where the smack landed. “But you’re going to be good, aren’t you? You’re going to take it all.”

“Bill?”

“Shush, Tom.” Bill hand is on his wrist, and he’s stroking his fingers across Tom’s palm, tracing the lines he must know by heart now because it’s one of a hundred ways he knows to bring Tom back from the brink. The soft touches ground him, keep him down on the bathroom floor and not somewhere up in his own head.

“…can’t, Bill.” Tom whispers, so quietly, he’s not sure Bill heard him but then there’s a sigh.

“Yes, you can, Tom. Be a good boy. For me, okay?” And Bill stops stroking his palm to cradle his wrist, bringing it up to Tom’s face and presenting him with a thumb to his mouth. He makes him suck on it and it keeps him quiet for the most part as the water continues to flow. Tom’s world is small now – the water, his thumb, Bill’s hand caressing along his swollen belly, the soft material under his cheek.

“Good boy,” Bill praises

It goes on for ages, Bill clamping off the hose whenever Tom needs it and he rocks in place, cramps making it difficult to breathe properly. He doesn’t ask how much is gone, and Bill doesn’t tell him, letting the bag drain from where it’s clipped onto the bathroom vanity chair in its own time.

When he tries to speak - the pain prompting a gasp or when he thinks (hopes) the bag is empty - Bill shushes him, trailing fingers down his belly to the cock ring that keeps him confined and restrained as he pushes his thumb into his mouth a little more with the other. “You can take a little more,” he always answers and Tom whimpers.

It hurts.

When he feels Bill get up, he grunts, wondering what’s going on but Bill tells him to stay down. The dull thwack on the bag from Bill’s flick tells him that it’s empty. Finally.

He breathes deep and slow, waiting for Bill’s next move; the fingers moving along his crack, removing the nozzle, replacing it with the black plug. He feels the harness go on as well - around his waist, down between his legs, keeping the silicone in place. He dislikes the feeling of it but he’s learnt his lesson about going without it.

“That’s good, Tom.” Bill says, and Tom nods. He needs that, the support, the reassurance, the quiet comfort. Bill sneaks a hand into his, pulling him flat onto his back and he gasps as the water shifts inside him, and the plug presses deeper.

He’s already had a smaller one tonight - one he administered in his own room by himself in preparation for this, but this feels - “Five?” he gasps out.

“Yep.” Bill nods, trailing a painted nail around Tom’s swollen belly. Holy fuck, he feels full - full and sore. “You did so well too - five whole quarts!” He sounds content. Pleased. Like he likes Tom full and unable to fucking move on his own.

He feels like a blimp, or a pregnant woman, so full he can’t lift himself up to see his own feet anymore, the water in his belly forcing him to lift up on his elbows to even see Bill and even then it’s a laborious task, and he feels cold sweat break out on his back, as he pants and whimpers. He can feel the pain begin already, the soft burn in his spine and the dull ache in his belly stretching out into his groin.

His cock twitches between his legs and he groans.

“Such a good boy, Tom,” Bill smiles at him, and he’s reaching between Tom’s spread thighs, trying to touch the source of the throbbing hurt that’s overriding everything but Tom won’t let him. He forces his knees together, preventing Bill from having clear access to his groin and he gets a raised eyebrow for his troubles.

“Ah, Tom. Open wide…” Bill’s voice is a little mocking but mostly gentle, as if Tom was a wild animal he was trying to convince to trust him, but Tom _doesn’t_ trust Bill like that at the moment. Mainly because his fingers, far from soothing Tom’s distress, are now creeping down the back of his thigh, brushing at his balls with just the tips as Bill tries to get Tom to let him in.

Shove off Bill, he wants to say but all he can get out is a moan of _“Bill!”_

“Come on, Tom,” Bill rests his chin on Tom’s bent knees as he holds him steady with one hand and torments with the other, “Let me play with you. Be a good boy for me, hmm?”

_Fuck you,_ Tom wants to say but he can’t and Bill fingers are just nudging at his cock, swollen and hot though it is. All that comes out of his mouth is _“Please!”_

“Come on, Tomi,” Bill murmurs, pressing a kiss to Tom’s knee as he rocks closer. “Open up. Be a good boy for me, hmm?”

“Can’t.” Tom mutters as he tenses, trying to stay on his elbows as the harness cuts into his hip and his belly is tighter than a drum.

“Yes, you can, Tomi,” Bill coaxes, “Open your legs, and let me see that pretty cock of yours…”

Tom hates it when Bill calls it that – not a cock, but pretty – because it’s not fucking pretty or cute or whatever the hell that Bill wants to call it. It’s his dick and he’s nearly all man even though he feels quite like a girl at the moment, being told to lie back and spread his legs.

“S’not pretty," he grunts, except it sounds more like a moan because Bill is thumbing the head and Tom is so close to orgasm he can practically taste himself on Bill’s fingers already.

Bill likes him to clean up his hand if Tom’s come all over it. With his mouth.

Wet wipes just won’t do…

“Yeah, it is.” Bill chuckles at Tom’s aggrieved huff, “So pretty… Should get you some pretty jewellery there too – maybe a ring here…” He thumbs the head of Tom’s dick, “Or maybe a stud here,” he just touches Tom’s balls, “Or even here,” he presses two fingers just above Tom’s cock. “What do you think, Tom?”

Tom just moans, the touches driving him to the point of madness, “Want to come, Bill,” he whispers.

“Not yet, Tomi. Not yet.” Bill takes his hand away, rests them both on Tom’s knees. “Open for me. Let me see your pretty thighs, sweets.”

It’s the nickname that does it for him, _sweets_ , as though Tom really is a girl, or a pretty little thing anyway and he can’t help the twitch of his dick that happens when Bill calls him that.

He drops off his elbows, his back hitting the towels with a dull thud. He spreads his legs, trying to rock his hips up and Bill coos at him, presses two fingers behind his balls and Tom gasps, moans, opens his legs even wider. He’s offering himself up, desperately begging for a touch on his aching cock, his swollen belly and Bill leans down, and Tom nearly weeps because he think he might actually get a blowjob or something from it, but Bill has other ideas.

Instead of a hot wet mouth around his cock, or even a soft hand, Bill nuzzles his belly, crawling over him to stand on all fours, hovering above Tom’s naked body.

“Please!” Tom doesn’t want kisses and touches and cuddles – he wants sex in whatever form it comes in but Bill just crawls up to lap at his chest, caressing a nipple with his tongue and Tom is absolutely undone.

Whatever Bill wants, whatever he does, Tom doesn’t care. His brain is gone, his thought processes reduced to _need to come_ and _be a good boy_ and the two are at war with each other. One minute the need to be good is overarching, the next, he has an overwhelming urge to reach down and jack off and it keeps flicking between the two.

“Such a good boy,” Bill murmurs as he comes up from Tom’s chest, “Are you being a good boy for me?”

“Want to,” Tom murmurs, “Wanna be good for you, Bill…”

“Good, Tomi,” Bill gives him a peck on the lips, but it’s not enough before he takes a detour, pushing Tom’s head to the side with one hand, while the other stays over Tom’s right nipple, and it’s a fucking dangerous position.

“B-Bill?”

“Shush, baby…” Bill whispers right into Tom’s ear before he bites softly on his lobe, and Tom is reminded instantly of Bill’s promise last year on their birthday.

_“So pretty, Tom,” he had cooed as Tom stared at himself in the mirror, naked except from Bill’s hands framing his groin. “Such a pretty boy…”_

_He’d squirmed and moaned, desperately, then as now, to get off, and Bill had just smiled at him, kissing his ear lobe with soft lips._

_“We’ll get you some little hoops, Tom,” he had whispered, “Lovely little gold hoops; make you look even sweeter than you do now. You need some studs – little hearts, maybe, because you’re a sweetheart…. or teddy bears.” Tom had shuddered, trembling under Bill’s confident hands and soft voice. “Hmm?”_

_“Please!” He’d begged for something – anything, and Bill had been merciful, jacking him off in front of the mirror, forcing Tom to watch as he’d kissed Tom’s neck into leopard spots, rubbing at his nipples to bring him to a climax that left him weak kneed and so dazed, he needed Bill to practically lift him to the bed._

_Not before he’d made Tom lick his own come off the mirror though._

He wants another orgasm like that now; Bill has driven him right to the edge over and over and the journey each time is getting shorter and shorter. But it’s not going to happen and Bill is kissing in the hollow behind his ear, nibbling down his throat to kiss in the dip between his collarbones.

Still not enough.

“Want, Bill…” he moans, trying to wrap his legs around Bill’s waist, and press his groin to his brother’s but his belly is too big, and he’s too sensitive – the plug in his backside nudges against his button as Bill calls his prostate, and he goes limp and pliant just like that.

“I know,” Bill comforts, “I know but you’re on punishment so you can’t…”

Tom feels the tears escape – or maybe they’ve been escaping this whole time but he hasn’t noticed – and he reaches up, clinging to Bill like a life line. He tries to kiss Bill but it’s sloppy and he’s desperate and his cheeks are damp; his belly is huge and he can’t make up the distance without the plug twitching inside him.

“So _pretty_ ,” Bill says as he takes Tom’s head in his heads, holds him steady to kiss him properly with licks and nips to his lip and pressing that tongue stud to the ring in Tom’s lip.

“Need you…” Tom mumbles, fretfully but Bill just chuckles, moving backwards so he can nuzzle at the bump in Tom’s abdomen and it’s so weird to look at. Normally he’s as flat as a prairie down there on a good day, slightly concave on a bad one, soft and tender for Bill to lick and touch and stroke with the pretty ribbons he likes so much. But now, it’s swollen and hard and his skin is tight over it, so much so he can’t see his feet over the top of it. It’s not much – hardly anything at all, comparatively, but when you’re not used to anything, something small seems quite a lot.

Bill loves it though, stroking at it, kissing it, nuzzling it and Tom wants Bill to leave it alone, let him get on with his two hours _(how long left anyway?)_ if he won’t allow a climax.

“Shush, sweets,” He presses kisses to Tom’s lips, “You’ll be fine.”

“ _Need_ to come, Bill…” Tom begs and Bill laughs, and it’s not funny – he’s sweaty and hot, and full, and his cock throbs between his thighs and Bill thumbs his nipple. “Please – I’ll do anything!”

“Oh, Tom…” A smile – not regretful or soft or comforting, but predatory, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep…”

“What?”

“Bedroom, Tom.”

_Oh no._   



	7. Chapter 7

**Bridles and Begging  
**

**~*~**

  
  


It takes a while for Tom to get into the bedroom – every step moves the plug inside him, every breath in lets him feel just how full he is, keeping him almost bent over. He has to cling to Bill, whimpering as they move carefully through the doorway and Bill accidently – or not? – presses a hand to his belly, tapping his fingers against it and causing the weirdest sensations ever. The ache between his thighs means that every time he catches his breath, his cock throbs and beats an angry rhythm and just to keep him edge, Bill reaches down, strokes at Tom’s dick and Tom is thrown into turmoil again.

Bill leaves him in the middle of the room, kneeling on a blanket, thighs wide apart, head bowed to the floor. The position is neither here nor there in terms of aggravating his condition – it’s more Bill prowling around the room, digging to his suitcase for the playbag that sets Tom on edge, makes him whimper and moan and sigh as he rocks to and fro.

“You have no idea what you look like, do you?” Tom hears Bill’s voice from behind him and he has to grip the blanket tightly to prevent himself turning around, staring at Bill which will surely earn him a week or two longer in this predicament. “So willing, so eager to please, so… so _whorish…”_ He pushes Tom’s limits with that last word – Tom is _not_ a whore, he _isn’t,_ no matter what Bill says but it’s so true in other senses. He has sex with people for something in return – Bill’s satisfaction, his pleasure, his enjoyment of watching Tom be taken over and over by a girl with a strap on, or watching Tom take a girl riding on his dick, hands cuffed to the headboard and unable to buck up.

Only able to take what is given to him by Bill’s command.

“Please!” He begs and whatever he’s asking for Bill knows even if Tom doesn’t.

“Shush, pretty,” Bill stands behind him, and Tom feels the warmth of his brother’s presence wash over him. It’s like a sun warming his skin, it’s that powerful and he allows himself to sink into that sensation, trusting that Bill will make him feel better after all.

A cool material is wrapped around his eyes, and Tom sighs. A blindfold. One of Bill’s favourite toys because it means that Tom is required to be absolutely trusting. They’ve tried it in every possible situation, both in bed and out of it and on several occasions, even outside.

One of Tom’s most memorable times with Bill was when he was blindfolded for an entire week at home before they left to record at the studio. It had been pure divine torment to be so dependent on Bill, needing his hand to walk down the stairs, being washed, being so scared every time the house went quiet. Bill had cared for him that week for the first time, feeding him by hand, washing him, insisting Tom stayed within inches of him. It hadn’t been the last time but the intensity of it stayed with Tom.

It had also been a time of supreme discovery. Learning Bill’s body with his hands, with his mouth and his nose and listening for Bill’s voice, Tom had come to understand that without his sight every time was like their first time. Tom blushed, fumbled, felt around for Bill’s dick, his nipples, the bottle of lube, _everything_ like a nervous virgin and Bill had had to guide him over and over to the right place, to the right lube, to the bathroom and the bedroom and the living room and even to the garden, where he’d made love to him in the orchard, where there were no cameras and no reporters.

But everything had been so intense.

Every orgasm felt like it lasted forever, every kiss felt like oral sex literally, every single time Bill pressed into Tom it was like divine intervention.

So now Tom sits in the middle of the floor, blindfolded in dark moss green silk and he waits. And he _wants_.

“Stay,” Bill murmurs as Tom starts. There are fingers brushing against his dreads, and a sweep of material across his back. Bill is binding his hair into one of his dreaded scarves, and Tom shudders. If he’s doing that, it doesn’t bode well for getting to come tonight and yes, he’s still holding out for that. Bill cannot be serious if he’s supposed to spend another nine days having enemas and being restrained and not fucking allowed to come.

Tom ignores the fact that Bill _is_ totally serious, and there is nothing he can do about it because the only thing keeping him going by this point is his faith that Bill will give in. He’s gone longer - fuck, he’s done a month or something before, but this feels… different. More. Stronger. He’s gonna lose it before long and Bill isn’t cruel enough to make him lose it and punish him for it to boot.

Tom rocks in place, whimpering as the pressure builds and he's starting to panic. What if is going around in his head, over and over – _what if Bill doesn’t let him come, what if he’s stuck like this for even longer, what if Bill has to leave and he’s left here all on his own…_

“Shush, baby,” Bill soothes him down from wherever he was going, rubbing his hand down the side of Tom’s neck gently, so gently. Tom pants, wanting to lean forward to see if that helps relieve the hurt but the hand on his shifts to rest on his shoulder, pushing him down hard enough to really make it clear. _Do not move,_ it says, _stay where you are,_ and Tom has no choice but to rest heavy on his haunches, his dick hot and throbbing between his legs. “Hands.” Bill commands him, and Tom unclenches his fingers from around the blanket to offer his hands palms up to the only person who will ever take him this far into submission.

Bill cuffs him with the thick, padded leather ones – the ones with soft fleece on the inside to prevent him from harming himself by abrading his wrists, or even cutting himself on the tough outer shell – checking that they’re tight enough by running a finger between the cuff and Tom’s skin. It only just fits and that’s perfect.

His arms locked behind him, blindfolded and squirming in place, Tom knows he must look ridiculous. He’s blushing as well – a hot pink rushing up from his cheeks down to his neck and chest, and that just makes it feel even worse. He’s damp with sweat already, his back feeling slick and his forehead hot. He desperately wants a cool shower now – to rinse down and relax under the flow is a far better use of water than shoving it where the sun don’t shine and expecting Tom to be grateful for it.

“Bill!” He calls and instead of getting an answer, he gets a jangle of metal as a response and he groans, “No – please, Bill!” He begs but there’s no response from his brother. The jangling comes closer, and then there’s a moment where all is still. Tom hardly dares to breathe, wondering what is actually happening – has Bill given in to Tom’s begging? Hardly likely but Tom can dream, can’t he?

Then Bill presses a thumb against Tom’s lips, forcing them apart, and then instead of allowing Tom to suck on his thumb – whether as a gift in of itself or as a precursor to a blow job – the digit is removed. And its place comes a gag – a bridle gag, with metal links and leather straps, cool as it fits neatly over his head. Within seconds, it’s held in place by Bill’s hand as he does the buckles up and then – and then…

Blind, mute, cuffed. Tom is left alone in the middle of the room, panting, shifting, rocking in place as he is restrained and bound. His dick bounces angrily against his belly as he rocks back and forth again and this time Bill doesn’t tell him to stop it. It means that Tom’s free to rock and shift as he pleases but it also means he’s going to be hugely unsatisfied as well because no amount of rocking is going to alleviate the enema pressure or the raging hard on he’s got going now.

He would beg for release but Bill’s muted him for a reason.

“Good boy,” Bill says, and Tom hears rustling as something is moved from – the bed? It’s the right direction so yes, the bed – and then more as springs squeak. Bill sounds like he’s – “Just a nap, Tom.” He says, sounding horrifically calm.

He wants to protest – if he has to stay awake, and suffering shouldn’t Bill at least watch over him? but the message in the bridle gag is clear – _be silent._

**

Time passes so very very slowly. Tom has no way of knowing when his time is up, and there is no clock to tick to let him follow the passage of the minutes and hours. His own breathing is loud in his ears and gradually, so gradually, he relaxes.

There’s nothing else to do.

He cannot remain that tense for so long, and Bill’s occasional soothing words slowly lets him work his way down that treacherous path of submission. It’s hard for him – he wants to resist and stay in control but the right thing to do is to let go. To just allow himself to drift inside the white space of his mind and let what comes, come.

Inside that white space, he can’t hear outside his own mind, and he doesn’t know when Bill moves from the bed. The first indication of it is when he’s touched.

Bill’s hand on his neck doesn’t startle him, and he just sighs into the pressure. “Such a good boy,” Bill whispers and Tom sighs again. He likes hearing it. It makes him feel good. It makes him feel… He _likes_ learning how to please Bill to earn those words more often. “Lie down.” Hands under his arms help Tom to lie first on his side, slowly and painfully and he has to rest into his lover who just steadies him again. “You’re okay, you’re okay…” Bill unfastens the cuffs but only to bring them around the front.

He moans, the sound distorted and strange and Bill immediately soothes him back down, helping him onto his back with his knees spread. He’s back to the same position from the bathroom, but this time he’s on the blanket on the pine of the bedroom, rather than the hard tile of the bathroom, a pillow in the small of his back as Bill raises his arms to lie on the wood floor over his head. Absolutely exposed, unable to protect himself, Tom feels his heart begin to race again.

“I’m here,” Bill strokes along the line of the gag, and Tom feels every brush with a sensitivity beyond what he can normally take. He’s crying, really crying, his breathing ragged and his chest heaving. He feels so on edge, so weirded out and Bill doesn’t do anything except place a hand on his heart.

And that’s it. He’s gone.

He sobs, and actually, it’s a release that feels almost as good as orgasm.

Lying on the floor, feet braced on the floor and spreading his knees, he is absolutely exposed again, and then Bill just breaks him again inside his mind on top of everything else, the pain from his dick and belly combining to shatter his self control. It’s not pretty, it’s fucking ugly, Tom knows, because he feels absolutely fucking stupid but he can’t stop.

Bill’s only response is to hold Tom’s hand and say nothing.

Tom is crying not just from the pain - that’s almost a transcended a part of himself in such a way that he doesn’t ignore it but he recognises it and can just let it be. He’s sobbing from the release of tension, of frustration that’s kept him on edge for the last few days, punished by his own internal need to orgasm that isn’t actually about him at all. It’s about exerting his own control, and he’s forgotten that he has to trust Bill to know what he needs, rather than fighting for it himself.

Time passes again, and Tom doesn’t know how much or how little but he cries for all of it, releasing the pain and the worry and the hurt inside of him by weeping. He clings to Bill’s hand, trusting that Bill will be here for him, and that’s all he needs to know to be able to let go.

Gradually, he comes back to himself, finding Bill’s hand on his face. It’s not an immediate thing - it’s not like one minute he’s floating in his headspace and then next he’s fully in the room. It’s like tuning a television, kind of. Slowly, the fuzz and the white noise is replaces with the bright and stark reality but it takes time and parts take longer to come back and he has to adjust his own internal view point until it works. He fades in and out until he feels like he’s come back all the way and then he has to wait more, just to see if it’s true.

Only when he’s fully aware again, does Bill move, wiping away the tears that have seeped from under the blindfold, the drool that he’s managed to get out from behind the gag and the crap from his nose that’s making him itch. Such is the glamour of crying, he thinks to himself, but Bill doesn’t object to the disgustingness as he wipes the cool wash cloth on Tom’s overheated skin. It feels amazing, and Tom allows himself to wallow in the simplicity of the sensation.

“Are you with me?” Bill asks once Tom is clean again and Tom actually debates the question.

Is he with Bill? Is he back in the room? He doesn’t know yet. He can feel the blanket against his sticky back, the heat of Bill’s hand on his arm, and the smooth finish of the wood beneath his feet but emotionally, he feels lost at sea. He shakes his head, feeling the gag clink with the movement.

“That’s okay,” And with those words, Tom understands that it is okay.

He waits, and Bill waits beside him, waiting for Tom to be ready completely. There’s no rush, Tom understands, no pressure. It’s not about the enema, it’s not about the two hours now. It’s all about him. Just let the waves of pain and reassurance guide him back to himself, that’s all he has to do.

And Bill will be there for him when he gets there.


	8. Subspace and Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taa daa! Thanks to Amdee for the encouragement, and Hexen for the in-depth discussion about where this story needs to go. Thanks also to Lizard for the brief look over it during the initial stages!
> 
> So sorry for the long wait. I hope this chapter is okay to make up for at least some of that!

  
  


It takes so long to come back to himself.

It takes so long to come back to Bill.

That’s the first thing Tom found out in this relationship, and it’s not changed now. It takes so long to come back around, so fucking long to make sure he’s actually back in the room and with Bill and not somewhere inside his own head, half in and half out of reality that entire afternoons can slip by if he’s not careful.

But it never seems to bother Bill, never seems to worry him, and Tom trusts that. He has to.

Bill sits beside him for all of it though.

Tom feels so tired.

So drained emotionally.

So full physically.

Bill squeezes out the wash cloth again in the bowl of water, and the soft trickling sound makes Tom stir. The sensation of the rough cotton on his belly makes him flinch but Bill murmurs something, a caution, a reminder to be good – something – and Tom sinks back into the pillow softness of his mind.

He aches.

His belly is hard and he hurts inside, and his sacrum throbs, and his groin is one big ball of pain but it doesn’t matter now. Pain is just another thing to experience, and Tom wallows in it, allowing the waves of electric hurt to come right up to his personal limits and then recede. The cool wash cloth in Bill’s hands moves down to cradle his aching dick and balls, wrapping them in the damp material, and Tom shudders, the sensation causing goose bumps to spread, despite the heat in the rest of his body.

More time passes. A lot of it – Tom must be near the end of his two hours by now, surely – but Bill gives no indication of how near or far Tom is from the finale of this, and Tom won’t ask. Bill will tell him when it’s time. Tom trusts him on that.

He sighs, and lets his mind wander back to reality on its own terms.

“Are you back with me?” Bill dips the cloth again, wrings it out, folds it, places it over Tom’s forehead. His face is hot from all the crying, and Tom relishes the change in temperature the wet cloth brings him.

This time, he thinks he is back in the room. He’s far too ready for this to be over. He can feel every inch of himself, every part of that which is Tom in stark contrast to everything that isn’t him. His mind doesn’t feel crystal clear and sharp but it’s comfortably aware.

Bill’s noticed the change too, the fact that Tom is no longer somewhere deep inside himself actually very clear to an observer. Tom hears him get up, padding across the floor before a door opens somewhere over the other side of the room. A faint sound of splashing follows, and Bill’s disposed of the water in the sink.

The door opens again and that means it’s time to move.

-

Bill helps him up, the two of them working slowly to ease Tom first to his knees and then to his feet, the enema still making him slow and unsteady. He’s still blindfolded, the darkness a place to retreat to when he’s feeling so emotionally raw and he’s thankful that Bill doesn’t take it away even though he could.

As they make their way to the bathroom, Bill keeps up a constant stream of onesided conversation but the actual words aren’t important. It’s all about the sound, the tone, the way his voice goes up and down as he answers his own questions. Tom’s always been about the pure sound, the colour, the sensations, always focused on the real and the solid – he likes to be connected to things but he doesn’t need to know the technicalities behind it.

“Good boy,” Bill praises and those are two words that Tom is highly attuned to.

He likes hearing it.

On the way to the bathroom this time, Bill doesn’t play with his dick though, or touch the plug, and Tom is grateful for it. He couldn’t take it now – he’s so fragile in this headspace, he might break apart on a hotel room floor. What just happened – that wasn’t shattering. That was a slow break by Bill, letting Tom sink into submission and the softness of subspace, a joint enterprise to move Tom away from wherever he was going into the correct mindset of obedience and discipline.

Shattering is losing it, losing everything, losing _absolute_ control.

It’s not disciplined, it’s not a slow and steady descent that Bill permits through touch or bondage or sex. It’s a crash landing into subspace through exhaustion, and emotional pain, and usually physical trauma as well. It’s even uglier than what just happened now, a trembling mess left behind as Tom retreats to somewhere not even the pain of a wrenched shoulder, or a broken wrist can find him, a place where there’s nothing but warmth and softness, and nothing but him floating along.

Wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone like that and sure as hell, he’ll do it again, but he’s not ready for it today. This time, Bill’s taken him down just far enough that he’s well within subspace, but not so far that he can’t get out again.

He’s still there though now. Even though his hearing is sharper than before, and he can feel the change from carpet to tiles beneath his feet very clearly defined, his mind still feels full of cotton wool, making him slow to think and react.

Inside the bathroom, Bill has disposed of the towels on the floor into the laundry basket some time during Tom’s subspace episode, and the enema kit vanished from the side of the bath tub - Tom can't feel the long hose trailing on the side as he moves past it. On the side, Bill tells him a blue toothbrush sits in a grey mug with a new tube of toothpaste. A bottle of green mouthwash stands beside the cup as well.

The room feels absolutely normal – as though nothing ever happened in here – nothing strange or weird or _not normal._ Thank God for that, Tom thinks.

“Brace.” Bill murmurs in his ear, and Tom obediently stands still, the backs of his knees not quite touching the toilet. Careful fingers unpick the belt, leaving the straps to dangle around his waist before an arm reaches around him, disconnecting it from the plug, and Bill lifts the material away. Two things are keeping everything inside: the flared based of the plug, and the tight grip Tom’s backside has on it. The second he sits down, that will change.

Bill leaves him on the toilet, taking the harness with him, but Tom waits for the door to click shut behind his brother before he gently pulls the plug out, fumbling to keep hold of it as he sits down on the seat, dropping the plug on the floor next to him.

A second of silence.

Sweet bliss comes like a roaring tide as he finally gets rid of the water inside of him.

The clock above the door ticks away, a steady beat in the calmness of the room but Tom just pants, leaning back and spreading his knees out. He feels so worn out, so exhausted. It’s right down to the bone, to the very edge of his limits, spreading slowly but inexorably through his body.

This is the bit that Bill likes the best. This is the bit that Bill likes the best.

This is the bit that Tom can’t decide if he loves or not.

  
He loves it right now, in this moment of release when nothing else matters. Afterwards, and just before he dreads it because he’s drained, and washed out, and he feels almost… hollow. Not just of physical mass but in his mind, in his emotions, he just hasn’t got anything else to give, to let go of, to hold onto.

He reaches down, grabs onto his ankles just to make sure. After four years of doing this, Tom’s learnt the procedure inside out and back to front. His spine clicks into place. Bill’s leaving him in peace in here but that’s not how it used to be. Right at the beginning, Tom needed someone in here to remind him of all the steps, to hold onto him when he ended up sobbing in relief, someone to remind him to bend down and bear down one last time before getting up. That last bit is rather important.

  
But about eighteen months ago, Bill decided that Tom knew what he was doing enough to be left alone in here, being made to deal with it mostly by himself, and so far, it’s okay. It works.

Minutes pass again, and he tries to focus on the reality his senses are feeding back to him as he sits up again. He’s damp with sweat again, everything hurting, everything _releasing,_ everything inside feeling empty and deflated. Even his dick, the sole part of him that hasn’t stopped raging against both the physical confinement of the ring and the mental restriction of being _on_ Restriction all fucking day, has finally subsided, feeling unassuming and soft between his legs.

Bah. He doesn’t feel very masculine now. At least when he had a hard on it looked visually impressive, even if it didn’t feel fine. Bill doesn’t mind either way for his own dick, but that’s because he’s started to tuck, Tom thinks, and soft is the only way to go when he does that. But Tom likes a bit more, a bit _better_ , than being completely limp. He doesn’t always walk around with a hard-on but he doesn’t mind a bit of one, just to make himself feel good. Right now, feeling it go so soft and strange and not the reddened, aggressive thing it used to be, he feels a bit….

Ah, fuck it.

His masculinity was something he used to like, something he used to cultivate almost aggressively because he wanted it. And because he thought he should. This industry – the one Tom’s been trying to break into since he was nine years old – tells him that men behave in certain ways, and boys should aspire to _be_ men. The swagger, the jokes, the big mouth, the tough exterior, it’s all part of a prescribed formula that just needs tweaking through the years and the fame to encourage female fans that little more. But Bill’s pushing into that world of masculinity that Tom’s sheltered in now. That thing on the bathroom floor, calling his dick _pretty_ , and the bit about piercing Tom’s ears, Bill’s encouraging Tom to move in a different direction, especially when combined with everything else that Bill does.

Tom’s not necessarily following in Bill’s wake – Tom doesn’t think he’ll ever wear high heels and the concept of mascara is still one that scares him – but he’s been taken down into a softer place, where everything’s warm, and gentle, and Bill controls just how far the masculinity that Tom hides behind can go.

A year ago, Tom would have absolutely kicked back against what Bill’s been doing to him.

Now, it’s a fact of life. One that he accepts.

He leans back, shifting to get comfortable for this last bit. It’s disgusting and gross and horrible and he hates every part of the enema but this one most of all. On the other hand, he knows the water and the holding and everything about tonight is going to make him feel lighter than air, where going on stage and talking to interviews becomes so easy, so _effortless_ that Bill only has to keep a very loose reign on him.

On the side is a bottle of antibacterial wash in the bowl and Tom knows Bill’s laid out a second plug for him to use – the first one needing to be cleaned in the bowl but it’ll wait until morning.

It’s weird for him to admit he doesn’t even need his sight now to replace this type of plug – he can do it one handed on feeling alone - a little lube from the tube that will stand next to it, a gentle exploratory finger to make sure he's not too sore down there - Bill will want to know if it's too much and Tom's learnt his lesson of lying about that - and that's all, really. Bill knows exactly what Tom has to do, and he trusts Tom to do it right. It’s why he’s left Tom blindfolded.

A knock at the door reminds him it’s time to move, and he sighs. Nothing else is coming out of him now, and he begins the process of cleaning up.

Yay.

 

\--

 

Teeth cleaned, safely wiped down from the sweat and bodily issue but still naked, Tom steps out of the bathroom, closing the door discreetly behind him. Enemas have their downsides, and even Bill has to admit clean up is one of them.

“Follow.” Bill orders him to the centre of the room, and Tom can hear more rustling, the sound of a zip being undone, and he knows what’s coming.

He kneels when Bill tells him too.

The toy Tom put back in when he was in the bathroom is there to protect against any further accidents, and now he wordlessly accepts the leather harness as it’s strapped into place. The base of the plug clips onto the ring in the back of the harness, and now it’s not going anywhere at all. His belly, no longer curved and full, lets the strap fall down to his hips, and Bill sighs. He ends up buckling it one hole more than he did the first time, then two because it still falls down.

Tom needs to eat more.

When do they get the time these days to do that?

“Bed.” Bill pulls him along in his wake, and Tom doesn’t try to struggle, allowing his hand to be held as he’s led to the bed. He’s so ready for sleep. So ready for a break from the pounding he’s subjected his own body to through so much stress and worry these last few weeks. The inside of his own head feels at once too empty, and too full, and he whimpers as Bill leads him straight to bed.

Bill doesn’t dress him tonight and Tom slides between the sheets straight away, the sensation of cool cotton all over him almost too much to bear until he’s taken several deep, calming breaths.

“Shush, Tom,” Bill climbs into bed next to him, and Tom doesn’t reach for the blindfold.

Bill’s made it clear that he’s going to stay this way until morning – reliant on Bill, trusting Bill, obedient to Bill, and that’s nothing that will change. Blindfolds are a very significant key to their relationship, and gradually over the last few months, Bill’s been sneaking them into more and more of their daily lives. When they travel on the bus or in the van, staring down a long ass journey to get to the next venue sometimes Bill hands him an sleeping mask and tells him to shush, and when they’re in a hotel room, sometimes, Bill doesn’t wait for Tom to be ready for sleep or bring out the play bag. He just hands Tom the little bit of fabric, or wraps a silk scarf around his face. His expectation is clear and very absolute.

Instant submission.

He leans his head on Bill’s chest, letting the heartbeat under his cheek lull him further into sleep.

Tomorrow’s a new day. There’s a concert, and there’re meet and greets, and interviews and photoshoots, and everything else that comes with their world and their job. Tom’s going to have put his game face on too, after the last few days of being miserable and lacklustre, first from the general prissiness of being caught up in the chastity and then from being on Restriction and being in Bill’s bad books. People will be pushing him to and fro, sending from place to place, across from one side of the city to another and Tom hates so much that the music that he loves comes with such unsettling side effects.

Bill is warm though, his body practically radiating heat for Tom who’s still so cold inside, and he tries to focus on that. Bill’s never lead him wrong, never taken him somewhere where he didn’t need to be and there’s no reason to think that tomorrow will be any different. He’ll be there to hold Tom, to keep him on the right track, to laugh and joke, and love him and Tom’s got to just believe in that, redirecting his thoughts onto it, not the punishment side of it.

Stroking a hand down Tom’s neck, Bill soothes Tom away from the negativity in his mind.

Nine days.

Nine days of this.

He can do it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter nine! Here we go... Ten coming later.

  
  


It’s the end of his ban.

Seriously. Halle-fucking-lujah.

After days and days of being trussed up like a turkey, forbidden to come, being forced to endure enemas and to be obedient to Bill’s every wish, Tom is staring down the last four hours of his prohibition on orgasm, on sex and pleasure and _fucking._

He’s on his best behaviour. He has to be. Bill would have no problem making it twenty days, or even a month again, and Tom is very aware of that. It’s happened before – he was on a five day ban, he got to the very last day, the last two hours, he thinks, and then he blew it by having a quick stroke in the shower. It had been mindless, completely the result of him not thinking, certainly not intentional, but Bill had taken serious issue with it.

He got another ten days on top of the original ban and was told to suck it up because he’d earned the damn days.

And when he broke that one, but this time deliberately, because he was pissed off, Bill gave him twenty days plus his original ban, and _Really, Tom, you should learn when to cut your losses because you are not going to win this._

Tom didn’t like being told he wasn’t going to win something. It was one thing when he looked himself, and determined his odds as pretty shit and gave up on his own, but the _second_ someone told him to give up, he just dug in further.

Nobody tells Tom Kaulitz he’s going to lose. Nobody.

And Tom had stood eye to eye with him, and dared him to make it longer. He’d got right up in Bill’s face, not backing down, not letting Bill get away, and he’d pushed his jaw out and fucking dared him to do it. In that what are you gonna do about it? way that drove Bill one hundred percent insane, and Tom knew it.

In all honesty, he’d been jonesing for a fight all day, just because he wanted Bill to give him something more than the calm façade he had been all day, dealing with Tom’s aggressive outbursts with deft authority.

But Bill hadn’t backed down, he’d just reached down even further into that well of control and calm serenity in the face of anger and aggression, and quietly repeated himself. Tom fucking hated it. How could Bill be so fucking calm and in control when Tom was spiralling out of control, and shouting and demanding that Bill give him something to push back against.

It takes two to make a fight, and Bill taught Tom the meaning of that saying on that day. Tom was ready to fight, Tom was ready to go and get into it, and make it into something more, but Bill wasn’t. And that meant a fight couldn’t happen. Tom was going around and around, but the only person to fight back against was himself.

And that was no fun.

Thirty days, Bill’d said coolly, and he’d be quite happy to make it two months, and would Tom like to test him? Really? And the stone cold determination in his face made Tom think twice about pushing it.

There had been no mercy in Bill’s eyes. None at all. Sometimes, Tom knew how to push him, and he could do it because Bill let him, just gave in and argued it out. Sure, Tom usually never won the resulting argument or fight, but the excitement, the thrill, the intensity was there. There had been absolutely no give in Bill that day. None. Not one inch that Bill would be willing to back down on, not one bit of give in Bill’s attitude, nothing.

Instead, Tom had been the one to retreat. He’d backed down, apologised to Bill, first standing and then on his knees, and he’d taken the rest of the punishment without much of a fight. Much being the key word.

Forty five days without orgasm. Hell. On. Earth.

It had not been pleasant. To say the very least.

His entire world focused on his dick, the one thing he couldn’t have, and life didn’t stop because his dick was out of action. He still had to go to the studio, still had to make appearances in public, still had to learn new music, and do schoolwork, and all the rest of that shit. No relief, no mercy, nothing.

He had to suck it up and go along with it.

Just like he has for the last ten days.

But this time he’s been so good. Bill’s praised him every day for keeping to the rules, and Tom’s made absolutely sure that his ban ends tonight at ten o’clock just because he doesn’t want to be caught out with time differences and all that fuckery. Bill keeps telling him how long is left though – sending him text messages with the hours remaining, whispering in his ear how long is left, drawing the numbers on the palm of his hand as they were driven to the venue, and Tom squirmed in the backseat, so hard inside the harness that he could break fucking rocks with his dick.

_Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, such a good boy for me, Tom, eight, seven, six, trust me, give me your trust, I want it, five, you’re so close, Tom, so fucking close…_

And now it’s almost time.

Just four more hours.

Four. More. Hours.

He’s praying already.

They’re in the green room again, the whole band retreating from the noise and the lights of the stage after just finishing a concert, and Tom would be resting on the couch, comfortably slumped over in a heap as he waits for feeling to return to his fingers, but this time, Bill’s upped the ante.

It’s always Bill’s way – the final stretch has to push Tom right to his limits, driving him so close to the edge where punishment and Hard Restriction lies that it takes true willpower to stay away from it. It’s never enough for Tom to be in a situation where he’s got to just think about how he behaves – he has to be forced to choose the harder path. The path of choosing to restrain himself, of thinking about his actions, and his behaviour, and the consequences of them.

But the reward is always sweeter for it.

Bill could be a dick and attach himself to Tom twenty four hours a day. But that implies no trust in Tom, and trust is an important part of his and Bill’s relationship. It says that Tom is incompetent, or incapable of behaving himself.

And he very much is capable of behaving himself. He just fucking chooses not to sometimes.

And sure, he could sneak off during rehearsals, or during intermission and jack one off in a toilet somewhere. On a concert day, or a day when they’re really busy, he could do it – Bill’s always in demand for photoshoots, and sound checks, and make up sessions with Natalie, and try as he might, he can’t always get out of them every time Tom wanders away. Likewise, they can’t always visit the toilet together, or even wait around outside for the one in the cubicle – it depends entirely on how they think people will react to them, and Bill needs to make sure it’s safe. Their public facade is important, and has to be nurtured, and guided to the right place, and that means sometimes they have to separate a bit.

But yeah. All things in all, Tom has to choose to play by the rules.

A bit of persistence, some lock picking skills applied to a padlock or the harness’ combination lock, and he could easily have that brief but awesome moment of pleasure in a cubicle or in his bunk, or in a greenroom somewhere in the darkened corridors of a venue. Bill would know as soon as he looked at Tom’s face, but he probably couldn’t stop him in the act in time.

But his disappointment at Tom’s wilful deception, his fury at being disobeyed, and his sadness at how Tom had pushed at the boundaries that Bill lays down for him, they’re the things that keep Tom from doing it.

Disobeying Bill hurts them both. Being deceptive hurts them both. Pushing against the rules that Bill has created to both protect and help Tom hurts them both. Sure, Tom’s the one who gets spanked or caned, gets an enema or no dessert, or whatever, but Bill’s the one who has to give it, who has to punish and be cruel to be kind and whatever else.

It’s not fair on either of them.

Bill’s also the one who has to deal with Tom being pissy the next day, or hurting, or whatever else a punishment might inspire in him, and keeping that under control is a huge challenge. Tom is not known for being able to keep a lid on his temper when he’s pissed off, and a spanked backside does not help in any way when he’s really thrown caution to the wind. It takes a special someone to keep him in line when he’s feeling like that.

But now, Bill has pushed Tom again, driving him towards the precipice where he has to choose to trust Bill or to disobey him.

In the bus before they went into the venue but after the photo shoots and interviews, Bill had taken Tom to their sleeping area. He hadn’t said a word, holding a finger to Tom’s lips when he tried to question what was happening. He’d locked the door in silence, and turned to Tom with an expression that revealed nothing. Bill made him kneel on the bed, jeans off but his t-shirts just pushed up around his chest as he held onto a pillow and waited in confusion.

Instead of the relatively gentle cage that just puts everything off limits that Bill usually chooses for stage performances, Bill slicked him up over the course of twenty minutes, from one finger, to two, to an incredibly tight three, letting Tom get used to the stretch rather than encouraging his sexual response. Bill kept away from his prostate, wary of Tom’s precarious position of being constantly ready to come with only a tiny bit of provocation. In turn, Tom had bit into the pillow in his arms, holding onto his dreadlocks with one hand, praying for relief even as he tried to be good and hold back for Bill, just for a little bit longer.

He’d had a vague idea of what was coming, despite the unusual circumstances, but he’d still held out hope that Bill decided to end the punishment early because seven hours wasn’t that much, was it? It wasn’t that far off the end goal, surely?

And then Bill had slipped in the plug.

It took time, even with the stretching, the short but stout toy needing both Bill’s patience and Tom’s submission and relaxation to finally be properly seated. It had taken every ounce of Tom’s self control not to rut backwards or into the pillow beneath him, his dick swinging angrily between suddenly quaking thighs. It would have been so easy to do it. A few quick strokes, or rocks into the pillow, and that would have been it for him, coming all over the bedclothes.

But Bill had praised him so much for his self control as he undid the cage, replaced it with the belt with the full front panel so quickly that Tom had hardly the time to breathe, or so it felt.

And he didn’t come.

At this stage of punishment, time no longer matters.

When Tom has the enema, or is given a spanking, every second of every minute means something. It counts for the passage of time, counting up or down towards an end goal – the release of the water inside of him, the final blow landing on his backside.

From the moment Bill put the plug in, to now, time passes in huge waves and then tiny trickles, not the strictly measured pace of normal time.

There was the gap between Bill putting the plug in and changing Tom’s cage to the belt. Another huge rush of time that Tom does not remember between getting dressed - oh, so slowly, because the plug made him ache and throb down below – and eating dinner inside the venue, standing up because sitting would be impossible. A slow trickle when Bill was applying his make up, Tom observing in the mirror and it seemed to last forever, each stroke of the brushes in stop motion time at half speed.

Another huge rush between picking up his practise guitar in the green room to go over some stuff with Georg, and arriving on stage, the darkened space feeling too close and hot until the lights flared as Tom plucked the first notes of the night.

Another rush to now, where he’s only sitting because Bill is forcing him to be, draping his arm casually across Tom’s shoulders to keep him sat down, to keep him uncomfortably reclining into the squashy couch.

There’s no telling how much time has passed, really, not inside his own head. He doesn’t understand how it works like that – it literally feels like no time has passed between each point, but the fact that everybody’s talking about a concert assures Tom that he was there, and he was playing, and doing the things he was supposed to.

It’s so weird, so odd, but it’s something he’s learned to accept – Bill keeps him safe, and keeps him on track, so he just accepts the time skips.

Bill’s caressing his neck, and Tom allows himself to fall into the touch.

“Good work, boys!” David’s so pleased and Dunja is too, because everything went well tonight. They laugh and joke with Georg and Gustav and Bill, drawing out the good feelings of the night, but Tom alone is quiet.

He’s so close now. So close. His world has narrowed from being able to take everything in, to now being solely focused inwardly. His dick is no longer raging inside his jeans, funnily enough, but he’s so sensitive, so raw and exposed instead, that he’d almost prefer it. The plug feels too much, his nipples tight and aching underneath his shirts, and he actually trembles inside.

Everything in his brain is shutting down except the pleasure and obedience parts, and he can barely look around, never mind understand what he’s seeing.

“Great work, Tom!” Dunja reaches out to pat him on the back, but Bill is there, taking her hand, twirling her around and taking her attention away from Tom.

He doesn’t really notice.

\--

Tom has absolutely no recollection of how he ends up in the hotel room, kneeling on the carpet in the center of the room, still fully clothed except for his shoes and socks.

No memory whatsoever. Nothing. No feelings, no sights, not even the vague sense of knowing, if not actively able to recall. The last thing he can recall is David patting him on the shoulder and saying his guitar solo bit was very good, and they’d try to work it in next time as well. He could have been beamed into the hotel room by aliens for all he knows.

He’s not restrained in anyway, but in the corner of the room, he can see both his and Bill’s cases, and the one he refers to in his head as the fun case, because it has all Bill’s interesting additions in, is open and the contents clearly disturbed.

They’re never his toys. Not when it comes down to it. He might be the one to wear it, or have it used on him, or have to suck it or fuck it or whatever else it might require, but it’s not his. Bill buys them, Bill chooses when they are used and how and why, and he takes them away again at the end of the night, or the end of a punishment or even at the end of a reward. Everything runs on his plans, not Tom’s.

Tom’s never even bought one of his own. Not even lube or condoms, either, no matter what he says in interviews. Bill orders their stuff online, placing orders through discreet services that promise next day delivery and professional, polite, private service. There’s always fresh boxes of condoms – Bill likes to experiment with flavours, brands, ribbed, extra thin, extra thick just because, lubed, and even ‘for her pleasure’ varieties because Tom does in fact fairly regularly, entertain those with a vagina, and every little bit helps. There’s also lube – travel sized, industrial sized – seriously, how much do they go through, Tom dreads to think – flavoured, heat inducing, cooling, thick and gloopy, watery and thin, with extra aloe, and even, much to Tom’s disgust, with extra glitter.

As soon as they moved out of Mama’s house, Bill celebrated with an extra large delivery of sex toys, and aides. Fourteen boxes of them.

Shopping for toys is a bit different. Although Bill retains the right to have final decision, and he frequently surprises Tom with what he wants to try next, it’s a much more mutual process. They curl up on the bed, or downstairs on the couch together with Bill’s laptop, and go through different websites, scrolling through the pages and pages of toys – butt plugs, vibrating toys, cock rings, harness, manacles, chains, chastity belts, enema kits (oh, how he fucking loathes those) – and looking at reviews and prices, and comparing different ones so they get the best deal.

Tom hates it.

Hate, hate, hates it.

Most of the time.

It’s just so embarrassing to sit down with someone, discuss how you want to feel, what you want to stick up your ass, thinking about how something would feel and making decisions about it…. Bill likes it, but that’s because it’s Bill.

But it is good for them. Tom recognises that much; it’s good for them as a …. Well, he hates the term couple, but it’s what they are right now. It’s a time to work out more of their relationship, looking at what Tom wants, what Bill wants, and how they can come to an agreement on something fairly and equally – even though Bill purchases the item, he still wants Tom’s approval in some ways, and it’s important for them to discuss things. Tom’s got a great deal of distaste for anything that’s pink, and vibrating things are hit and miss, and he’s not so fond of things with the word prostate involved, but Bill likes the control he gets with a vibrating thing, especially with a remote, and he likes shopping for different chastity and restraint devices that Tom really would rather he didn’t.

But it’s a push and pull thing – if Tom gets one he likes, Bill gets one too that he prefers, either for himself or for Tom. If Tom doesn’t want a particular toy that Bill has taken a fancy to, he has to explain why. “I don’t like it” isn’t good enough, and like Tom said, Bill gets final choice.

Tom doesn’t even know what’s in their play case, really. It gets rotated so often with Bill’s main stash back home while they’re in the studio, and Bill is constantly adding things in when they’re on tour so that whenever Bill opens it, anything could come out of it. Sometimes, it’s a new toy, sometimes, it’s an old one to be used in a new way, sometimes, it’s an old friend or enemy, and Bill is rewarding or punishing him with it.

But it’s never boring, that’s for sure.

“Look at me, Tom.” Bill’s calling for him, back in the room, his voice low and quiet. Tom has to listen to it – it’s a voice that says, _listen to me, and do what I tell you._

But it’s so hard.

Tom struggles to locate Bill, his brain refusing to focus for more than a few seconds, and it takes minutes – precious minutes of his four hours left for him to lift his head off of his chest, open his eyes and look. Or is it three hours? Two? He doesn’t know. There are no clocks that he can hear, and the bedside tables are behind him.

He whimpers without meaning to.

“Shush, Tom.” He’s so confused, so fucking done with this, that when he finally sees Bill sitting in the armchair, he sighs in relief. Knowing that Bill is there, is really there for him in the room, is making him feel better and better. “Here.” Bill points to the floor just in front of him.

But when Tom goes to stand, Bill shakes his head.

And Tom crawls to Bill.

The journey across the carpet feels like it takes way too long – Tom can feel his dick moving in his jeans, the rough denim brushing against the tip, and making him cringe. Bill must have removed the chastity device sometime between the concert hall and this room.

When Tom reaches down to grip his cock, trying to alleviate the pain, he feels the dampness of the material, leaving his hand cool and wet.

What?

He kneels again, resting on his heels, and touches the patch on his jeans in confusion. Fuzzy brained, disturbed confusion.

His dick is overflowing with precome, and it’s left a huge damp patch on his jeans – an indication of how desperate he is, how much he needs this to be over. He’s so needy, so fucking ready that he’s practically advertising it.

He hopes that it wasn’t there when he got out of the van coming here. It would horrible to find that tomorrow – the magazines saying that he was so drunk he pissed himself or something.

“Come here, Tom,” Bill encourages him on.

Tom crawls forward.

When he gets there, Bill doesn’t let him get up, but he makes shushing noises, soft noises that soothe away the anxiety and the stress, the hurt between his legs and the absolute confusion in his brain.

Trust Bill. That’s what he’s being told, that’s what he needs to do.

Tom does. And he will.

He ends up resting his forehead on Bill’s thigh, almost face planting in his crotch, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll do anything to be close to Bill. Anything to be near him now, right now, to be touching and close enough to feel the heat from Bill’s skin, when Tom’s so confused and feeling so strange about anything.

He leans closer, mumbling his need, his _fucking want,_ and Bill soothes him down. Not until Bill says it’s okay can Tom do anything, but he’s so fucking desperate right now that if he had any way to get off, he’d take it, and fuck everything else.

But he doesn’t, and so he stays, pressed against Bill’s crotch, breathing in the scent of musk and Bill, and he trusts that Bill will hold him tight, will keep him safe.

Bill strokes across the back of his neck, down Tom’s cheeks, along his hairline, the touches entirely non sexual but somehow not, and Tom whimpers again, holding onto Bill’s jeans with scrabbling, eager fingers. So fucking _close._ He’s enduring this, not enjoying it. Every touch is almost too much, every sensation almost painful, but it’s what Bill wants. Those fingers are sly, and they know how to touch Tom. They know the hollow behind his ear, the sensitive part on the back of his neck, the tiny spot underneath his jaw to undo him, to make him stop thinking and start _wanting._

But the touches are a little different – they’re meaningful; Bill has purpose in his movements, and they’re working – Tom’s engaging another part of his brain, and even though the pleasure isn’t receding he’s rising far enough above it to be aware of Bill, of other senses, and to comprehend the messages that are coming back.

Bill smells clean. He’s clean. He smells of lavender and green tea, Tom realises, like he’s showered, and from the feeling of soft, worn blue denim underneath his cheek, these are different jeans from the tight, new black ones Bill wore on stage. He’s not wearing the same clothes that he was in the green room. He’s had time to shower and change.

How long has Tom been out of it?

Bill’s bare foot presses gently into Tom’s groin, just testing the response, and Tom gasps, shuddering as he tries to rock back into the pressure. It’s purely instinctive, age old responses and reflexes taking over before he has a chance to react. Bill laughs softly, running his hands down Tom’s shoulders.

“Good boy,” he praises, and Tom moans.

Underneath his cheek, he can feel Bill hardening, the jeans that were a tiny bit baggy now being pushed out by a distinctive shape, and Tom knows it so fucking well.

Tom _wants._

Everybody thinks Bill’s the one with a mouth thing and that he’s good with his mouth – those lips, that tongue, all the parts that Tom knows so well. It’s kind of true - the tongue stud is evidence of that – he’s always more into the look than anything else. Make no mistake, Bill likes oral just as much as the next guy, maybe a little bit more, and it’s not to say he doesn’t do it. He gives it, and receives it, and he fucking likes it when it happens.

But what people don’t get is that Tom is the one who’s a complete junkie for oral. Giving. Receiving. Whatever, whichever, however, it’s oral that is his first love. Having Bill’s dick in his mouth, going to town on it, having his face fucked, licking and sucking, going down on a girl, even licking Bill out – once Tom knows he’s clean, at least – very little can compare. He fucking _loves_ it. Will do it for hours and hours, just because he enjoys it. Anywhere – in a hotel room, in their bedroom, the shower, poolside, in the back of the bus, in the van, anywhere that he can get it, and Bill will give it, he wants. He can’t get enough of the taste, the smell, the feeling of it; it’s what he needs, what he wants all the fucking time.

He’s addicted. And Bill’s his dealer.

And now he’s begging for the chance again.

“You want?” Bill asks, sliding two fingers into Tom’s mouth, letting him suck on them as crude, and unworthy metaphors for his dick. Tom nods, not even bothering to lift his face away to give a clear verbal answer. He _needs_ at this point. He’ll die if he doesn’t get something in his mouth – something more than fingers. “Not yet, Tom.”

**_What?!_ **

But Bill keeps soothing him down, pushing him away from anger and frustration by stroking over his ears, down the back of his neck with his free hand, feeding his two fingers into Tom’s mouth with the other, caressing the silver horseshoe piercing there with his thumb. He’s letting Tom push his groin against his foot too – not much though, not actually… not actually _humping_ it because that would be beyond demeaning and well into a place that Tom’s not willing to go – but just pressing back and feeling his dick take the feeling, and enjoy it. And Tom has to take what he’s given, just accept his limits as Bill sets them, even though he wants to suck Bill off, wants to go down on him good and proper, giving him the blowjob of his _life._

But Bill won’t let him.

Probably because Tom’s self control goes even more out of the window than usual when he’s going down on Bill, and there’s something that Bill wants to do with him that needs him to be still hard and horny. But it’s still not fair.

“You’ve been good,” Bill says. He’s quiet,, no sign in his voice of the arousal that pushes out his jeans, and Tom envies so much Bill’s ability to separate himself from his body like that. From the waist up, Bill might as well be in an interview somewhere – perfectly calm and in control. “Such a good boy for me, Tom…”

_“Bill!”_ He’s not sure what he’s asking – since when is he ever sure these days – but like always, his twin knows what he wants, knows what he’s asking for.

“An hour, Tom. Just another hour.”

He can do this. He can so fucking do this.


	10. Chapter 10

 

“You’re okay, Tom.”

He’s not. He’s really not.

He’s on his knees in front of Bill, pressing his face in Bill’s lap, hungry for contact, for sex and love, but Bill’s denying him every step of the way.

It’s his fucking ban, but Tom doesn’t know when that’s up. Or even if it’s up yet.

Bill keeps him on his knees for a while, rocking and whimpering, desperate for release even though Tom knows he won’t get it.

He doesn’t stop begging, and part of that is he hopes - fucking _prays -_ that Bill turns into something other than the hard task master that he’s been all this fucking time and gives in. Part of him does it because he knows Bill wants him to talk, to communicate, to use his words instead of his body to show how much he _needs_ it.

How much he fucking _craves_ Bill’s touch, his smell, his fucking presence right now.

One of Tom’s hands is wound in Bill’s t-shirt, kneading at the ball of material in mindless repetitive motions that he’s hardly aware of doing. The other one is hooked into Bill’s belt, the tough grey canvas pulled taut as he tries to use to get closer to Bill, something to hold onto that keeps him bound to Bill more than the need and the desperation. Something _real._

Tom is way past not okay, and Bill isn’t even holding him together anymore, telling him to keep quiet and to breathe.

More time passes, but Tom doesn’t care.

He’s far too busy moaning and gasping into Bill’s lap, begging over and over again, p _lease, Bill, I want you, Bill, I need you, please please please let me just have a bit, just a taste, fucking please, I can’t; I need; I want; I fucking am gonna die; please, Bill_ over and over, and Bill’s hands are all over him.

They hold him, caressing the back of his neck, tracing down his shoulders, underneath his shirt to touch his back, so he shudders even more because… because it’s real and he’s so close.

Bill does this. To him. He always has, right from the beginning when they were fumbling under clothes and had no real idea what they wanted to do but were content to explore and try things out. Bill undoes Tom. Completely. Totally. Without hesitation, straight down to the wire, he takes it all away from Tom. Bill doesn’t just take him down a bit at the end, or make it quick and cheap sex, though Tom loves quick and cheap sex just the same because it’s _sex_ with someone he loves.

No, that’s not the way it’s done. Bill drives Tom towards the brink, with tongue and teeth, and chastity, and restraint, and love, and determination, insisting on absolute submission and taking every ounce of Tom’s control so he can’t fight back in order to make Tom crumble.

To make him fall over the edge of his own mind into…

Insanity.

Pleasure.

Pain.

Straight into a murky, strange mix of it all, deep and sticky, a pool of his own subspace that is just… it’s different from being taken down with an enema, or losing emotional control. It’s warm and rich, and it feels so… so right. It’s a different kind of right from letting go after sex or an enema, but the sensations, the pleasure and even the pain makes it so fucking good that he never wants to leave when he gets there. But getting there is the problem. He never wants to let go. He never wants to give in. He can’t do it on his own, and he hates it.

But Bill can do it for him. He can make it right for Tom.

He can push over and over, and more and more, and just when Tom thinks he’s gone, he’s done, Bill can push him that little bit more, and Tom is made to endure a little more. He’s got to hold on through this part when it’s so fucking difficult, through Bill’s voice telling him he’s such a good boy, such a good _slut, and such a pretty, pretty boy, because you’re mine, you’re all mine, and I want you to be so good for me, Tom. I want you to be so so fucking good for me, okay?_

Tom’ll be good.

He’ll be so good for _Bill._

 _“Good boy,”_ Bill praises him again, and Tom feels the words against his skin.

It’s his _thing,_ his trigger, his everything, being called a good boy. Everything he does is in response to that - accepting it, striving forward to be it, being called it, or rejecting it, making it so he’s the exact opposite when he’s feeling bad. For years, it’s always been that way. Right there, those two words: _good boy,_ define his whole relationship to Bill. He doesn’t know how it started, but he suspects Bill had a lot to do with it because he always does have a lot to do with everything about Tom.

When they were just starting out but before it got so… complicated with sex and physical touches, Bill began to call him that, just casually at first when Tom deferred to him on a musical decision, when Tom brought him tea without being asked, when Tom allowed him to pick out his clothes without a fight. It was never a big thing, almost… offhand, as though Bill didn’t place much thought behind it.

Sometimes, Tom wonders about that though. Bill’s a planner, a guy who plays the long game, and even then he picked the right words that would drive Tom crazy, just like that… Was it really coincidence, or did Bill just _know,_ like he always does? They were young, but Bill always knew Tom inside out and back to front, and perhaps _good boy_ was just another extension of that.

The first time Tom masturbated for Bill it was on his back on Bill’s bed while his brother looked on. It was awkward and felt so weird, and in the back of his mind, Tom _knew_ it wasn’t anywhere close to normal or acceptable behaviour. But he was praised with _good boy,_ and that made it stick, gave it a perpetual association with the words and sex. It’s beautiful.

He was thirteen, almost fourteen when that happened, and it’s only grown from there.

They’ve built this relationship, weighted against Tom in terms of power but perfectly balanced in terms of love, and trust that goes soul deep. He gives himself over to Bill, and Bill gives him back those words and his love, and it’s all they both ever want in the end. Those two words, and Bill’s love as well.

“Such a _good boy,_ Tom,” Bill praises him, and his voice is deep.

Tom knows that Bill’s ready, but he can’t understand why Bill won’t let Tom come now. It’s horrible. And because of that confusion, and lack of guidance, Tom is shameless because he just. _Keeps._ On. Going.

He can’t stop yet.

He presses his groin deeper onto Bill’s foot, riding the sword sharp pain that results, sinking down into that place where the shame of what he’s doing, the fact he’s behaving like an animal in heat, doesn’t exist at the moment. It might come back later, but not yet. Now, it doesn’t even begin to break through the fog that’s sinking down over his mind. He does it again, and again, just trying to feel the pain cut through the pleasure, but all too soon, Bill pushes him back, shushes his moan of distress.

“No, no…” He’s confused, hurting. Wondering why Bill is pushing him back when he could come right the fuck now. Tom _wants._ He fucking _needs_ to come, right now, and Bill won’t give him anything.

He ignores that Bill is giving him _a hell of a lot_ right now, that he’s just being so fucking greedy with everything. He just wants to orgasm because he knows it’ll be the best ever.

He has to make a choice now. Keep going, and risk wrecking tonight, or trusting Bill.

He stops.

He lets Bill push him down again, make him back off from nigh on rutting on Bill’s foot because he’s so close even Bill’s warning riding right in the back of his mind, telling him if he comes now, he’ll be in serious trouble..

Fucking _hell._  

It takes Tom a while to come when he’s been edged so far - it’s like his brain can’t process it or doesn’t understand the freedom it has and Bill is relying on that to prevent Tom from orgasming. Which means Tom has to fight his own body’s urges twice as hard _for_ Bill before he can come around, but it’s so _fucking_ wrong, he hates it. Hates it with that strong, irrational hate that always comes around when he’s so close to orgasm but can’t quite get there.

He shudders, and pulls Bill closer again, pulling on the belt and Bill’s t-shirt to make sure he won’t leave. Not that he can, but it’s the principle of the matter.

“Good boy,” Bill praises his obedience, slipping his fingers back into Tom’s mouth. It’s not the same as Bill’s dick - Tom is desperate to get his mouth on that right now - and as much as they’re nice, he doesn’t want Bill’s fingers. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate them - fuck, he loves everything that Bill gives him - but it’s not what he fucking _needs._ He doesn’t want to suck on an imitation; he wants the real fucking deal right now.

He pushes the hand away, grinds his cheek right where he knows Bill’s also hard and wanting, and he begs.

He pleads.

He promises the world.

One blowjob, that’s it. Bill could have everything of his just for one blowjob, and Tom would make it so good; he knows he could make it the best fucking thing in the whole wide world. He knows he would too - he’s that good. He’s making all kinds of promises just so he can get the one thing he really wants now, but Tom knows he won’t get it.

But he’s still allowed to talk.

His words are important to Bill. Tom doesn’t like using them - his voice is never something he can keep control of in day to day life because he has no brain to mouth filter, and people are always asking questions, asking him to talk about himself, the band, Bill…. In the bedroom, it gets worse because he _feels_ so much, and he’d like to keep a bit back for himself, you know? He wants to let it happen naturally, allow himself to process it first, absorb the emotion behind the feelings before he tries to articulate it.

But Bill won’t let him.

Bill wants his words and his voice - he wants it all.

But right now, when Tom is speaking, when he’s using his voice to give Bill exactly what he wants - the stuff they discussed as Bill’s needs when he’s being Tom’s dominant, Tom knows it’s not having the right effect that he needs to come, to earn that privilege. And it pisses him off.

Bill’s still touching him but not in the way Tom wanted. Those long fingers are still tracing around Tom’s ears, down the back of his neck, across his shoulders where his t-shirt is gaping, but it’s not where he fucking _hurts,_ where his entire body seems to be focused.

“ **Bill!”**

“I know, Tom.”

But he doesn’t know, and Tom begs for release.

For touches where he needs them.

For a moment to gather himself, his scattered sense of self, and try to figure out where he stands in the middle of this confusion.

But he can’t.

Tom sobs into Bill’s lap, and he’s broken wide open. Bill’s split him from heart to soul, right down the centre, and he’s fucking _dying._ Inside his jeans, his dick rages, and he’s this close to ripping off the his jeans and underwear, and letting it all go anyway.

“Please, Bill!”

“What do you want?” Bill breaks the pattern of shushing Tom, telling him he’ll be okay by asking him a question, and Tom nearly misses it, nearly misses hearing Bill’s request because he’s still begging and desperate. He shudders, pressing his face closer to Bill’s dick, and he can feel how much Bill likes this. How much he wants it.

He whispers, but he knows that Bill hears every word he says. “I w-want to please you.”               

And that’s the crux of everything.

Everything that will happen to Tom after they finish in the chair will create pleasure, and probably pain, and possibly a lot of intense feelings. It’ll be so fucking amazing; he’ll be fucking walking on sunshine for the next week, no doubt, if not longer.

But it’s about pleasing Bill. Giving _Bill_ what he wants from Tom. His submission. His release. His pleasure. Tom feels it, but it belongs to _Bill._ And he’s okay with that. More than okay, when he really thinks it through. He’s fucking happy for it - that connection is something he values beyond anything else.

Bill doesn’t discuss it often, choosing to just praise Tom for it, but they’re both aware it’s not quite… not quite the perfect norm of most relationships, even within the dom/sub world that they seem to exist in today. Tom has gathered that much from his brief forays into the world of online BDSM articles on submission, that he’s a lot deeper into it than most people, even in the small world of kinkdom. Giving someone a _yes, sir_ is one thing, but giving them your pleasure and pain is quite something else, especially the way he does. And giving Bill his all is something even more than that.

No restrictions. Just him and everything he can give, and everything that Bill can take.

But he loves it, needs it, craves the freedom it gives him, and Bill takes and takes anyway, so Tom can let it go.

“Please, please, Bill. I’ll be so good for you, so good, just…”

“You want me?”

“ _YES!”_ Tom surges forward again, his voice breaking mid-word because he’s that desperate.

“Do you want to come?” Bill holds his chin, making Tom look right up at him, through the haze of tears and the fog of need. “Answer the question,” he commands when Tom can do nothing but stare.

“Yes!”

“Will you be good for me?”

“Yes!”

“Will you?” Bill’s not smiling, and his eyes are very serious. “You weren’t last time.”

No. He wasn’t. He was bad and didn’t trust Bill to follow through on the whole orgasm thing. Bill likes to play with him, and he was _not_ in a playing mood that night. At least, not when he decided he’d had enough.

“I’ll be good for you,” he mumbles and prays it’s enough.

“I want a hundred percent from you, tonight.” Bill wipes away a tear, and Tom holds his breath. “A hundred percent trust.”

“Wha-?”

“Or it stops right now.”

And Tom finally understands what Bill wants from him tonight. And what he’s wanted for the last ten days.

Trust.

And not just obedience.

That first time, after the bath and the club, what Tom _should_ have done was use his words. The ones that would have stopped everything and let Bill know he couldn’t handle it, that it was getting to be too much for him. Bill would have stopped, held him close as they worked through first Tom’s orgasm, and then what they would need to change that made it too much for him. Instead, he was a fucking idiot, and chose to fight Bill instead of ‘fessing up to how he was feeling, and it cost him ten days of chastity as a harsh reminder.

He’s confessed what happened - he can never keep secrets from Bill - but only on the seventh night of Restricted. It was after his pissiness over the enforced chastity had worn off, and Bill _had_ praised him for his honesty, but punished him for keeping it a secret when he shouldn’t have.

Now Bill’s giving him a chance to learn from his mistake, to follow through instead of being cut off, and he’s ready. So ready.

“I promise.”

“Good boy.”

 

\--

  _Be a good boy, be a good boy, you need to be a good boy for me, okay, Tom?_ All he can hear in his head is Bill telling him how to behave, Bill telling Tom to hold on, and he’s fucking trying. He’s clenching his fists, and breathing through gritted teeth to try to hold onto his sanity. Or what remains of it.

But everything in his system is telling him that he can’t do this.

Time skips past again after Bill’s _good boy_ from the chair, and Tom’s not entirely sure how much of it. The rush of time passing recedes to let Tom find himself in the middle of the room again, back on the blanket, staring at the floor.

He could almost believe the entire incident with the chair never happened, but his hands are carefully locked behind his back, the fleece inside the thick leather bands holding him securely but without pain.

 They’re not the ones from the enema scene - those are medical style ones, and Bill likes them because of the image they convey. Enemas aren’t sex, they’re a …. procedure, Tom supposes, something removed from the bedroom to become a different thing.

No, these are the bedroom pair - the strongest ones Bill owns, and Tom can feel their weight, the length of chain between the cuffs heavy and industrial grade. Nothing soft about these - everything about them is for sex, and pleasure, and pushing until something breaks.

Usually Tom.

Bill’s practised with putting them on, and so has Tom, and he knows that he won’t be getting out of these without Bill’s key.

The thought just makes him even more ready.

He’s got his knees spread too, as wide as he can make them without pain, and he can see his entire crotch is damp and dark, spreading down his thighs. He feels so wet down there - not just a bit, but like a fucking chick, hot and ready and dying for someone to touch him, and sweat is making him feel like he’s gonna melt through the floor any second now.

But he’ll have to wait for that. Bill’s got plans, and Tom’s gonna behave.

He focuses on the floor, starting when he hears Bill moving behind him but unable to turn around to see. But he knows that Bill’s rummaging around in the toy case, and that whatever’s coming out of there is going to make tonight even better.

He wants. He craves. He needs.

This time, he’s facing the bed, turned around from where he was before, but the alarm clocks have been moved to face the wall, and he’s still got no idea how much time is left on his ban. Or even if there is any left - for all he knows, they’ve moved into extra time now, and he could have come an hour ago.

On the bedside table, Bill’s laid out the condom box and the lube for tonight – Tom doesn’t object to the condom, even though it’s not his favourite. But safe sex is important, and tonight, they need to have a quick clean up.

“Bill?” he asks, and his voice is weak and thin. It doesn’t sound like him – it sounds… raw. Open.

“Shush.” Bill shuts him down before he gets really started, and Tom closes his eyes. He’s so fucking ready – he has been for hours and hours and days now, but he needs to hold on. Just a bit more. Just a little bit more – he can do this, he can so fucking do this, but Bill is driving him into absolute hell by not even letting Tom suck him off, even though if it’s for good reason.

He rocks in place again, panting and moaning without meaning to.

Tom’s stretched as taut as one of his guitar strings, right at the breaking point where he might get caught and hurt, and he knows Bill is deliberately pushing him to be so. If he’s had enough, he needs to use his words and give in so Bill can catch him.

Not fight to the last.

It’s going to be hard. He doesn’t like using those words - they make him feel weak. Make him feel wrong, and as though he’s failing Bill by not being able to take what’s been given to him. Logically, he knows it’s okay to use them, to say he’s not doing as well as he could be, and Bill would absolutely one hundred percent stop whatever he was doing and help him.

But it’s still wrong in Tom’s eyes.

He suspects that tomorrow’s discussion will be about that because aftercare involves discussions, and questions, but right now he needs some attention from Bill, and he’s going to get it. Eventually.

Tom leans forward, rising up onto his knees, and the friction makes his breath hitch and his eyes close as his entire world focuses in on his dick caught up in in his jeans and boxers.

Down his back, between his shoulder blades, he can feel Bill looking at him, testing him with silence to see how Tom responds, but he’s good. He doesn’t whine or complain, or try to get Bill to come over to him.

 He’s recognising Bill’s control, acknowledging the power exchange, and accepting his role. It feels _good_ to let go, to trust that Bill is in charge and knows exactly what will happen tonight.

When he hears the footsteps behind him, Tom almost sobs. Bill’s made his choice.

He places a few items on the bed, using a pillow to hide them, and Tom knows that tonight is going to be very good.

He only looks up when Bill is standing before him, almost touching the edge of the blanket that Tom kneels on.

Bill’s ready. And so is Tom.

 “Stand.”

So fucking ready.

He staggers to his feet, helped by Bill, and when he finally gets there, Bill holds him steady from behind, asking Tom to trust what he can’t see for now.   

Tom is shaking, trembling deep down inside, and he whines softly, needing to be reassured. This is where Bill’s intimate knowledge of Tom’s tolerance comes into it’s own. He feels Bill’s hands on his chest, warm and solid. One sits on his ribs, the other one on his heart, Bill’s chin resting on his shoulder and it’s enough.

“I want your voice, Tom,” Bill whispers, the warmth of his breath washing over Tom’s cheek. “No holding back.”

“Yes, Bill.”

He breathes deep. He can do this.

 

 

 

\---

Tom pulls on the cuffs, checking them yet again to see that the chain is strong. Bill wove them through the wooden bars of the headboard, the foot of chain left with only a few inches of give.

Before they got to that point, Bill uncuffed him with stern words about not fighting back. Then he stripped Tom, his movements quick and gentle as he peeled off Tom’s t-shirt and urged him to step out of his jeans and underwear. They were thrown in a corner rather than folded, and Tom knows it’s because the momentum here is more important than anything else.

Bill is pushing him onwards, so he doesn’t think about what’s going to happen next.

Now Tom is nude except for his lipring and the cuffs, and he doesn’t care anymore. He’s spreading his knees, leaving himself wide open to Bill’s touch and his gaze. It might be about trying to entice Bill in - maybe. He might be trying to alleviate the pressure, but he’s so confused it’s not clear to him - and his chest heaves.

He just wants.

He begs again - Bill wants his words, and he’s going to get them.

“So good,” Bill murmurs, but he’s doing something, and Tom is more than okay with that. He’s uncapped the bottle of lube, spreading on his fingers to test the consistency. Tom holds his breath… “Spread.”

_Yes!_

Tom doesn’t care what Bill’s gonna do. Seriously. He does not give two shits if Bill is going to spend the next ninety minutes finger painting with lube on his dick because Bill is going to _touch_ him. In a _sexual_ way. It’s like fucking Christmas right now to him.

He trembles but spreads his knees as wide as they’ll go.

Bill moves so he’s kneeling between Tom’s spread legs, nude, as he gazes up Tom who’s barely holding onto control. “You want?” he asks, and his voice is neutral even though Tom can see that Bill is just as hard as he is, just as ready.

His control is perfect, as always.

“Please.” Tom breathes out, and Bill nods, a smile slowly breaking through his control.

“Love you like this,” Bill murmurs, just waiting on the bed, so close that Tom’s trembling legs touch him, before they’re pushed further apart.  Bill is stripped to down to just jewellery, and Tom thinks he’s never looked more … perfect. Like the Bill in his head when he’s separating Twin Bill from Dom Bill.

Bill’s fingers are cold against his skin, but it feels so good. So good. So fucking right.

Bill is humming, and Tom involuntarily relaxes.

Bill knows him far too well.

Tom feels the cool lube smeared down the crease of his thigh as Bill tests his reaction. He wants to slam his legs together because _holy motherfucking shit that’s intense_ even though it’s not on his dick or even near anything of great importance.  But he doesn’t, and he breathes slowly and evenly. This is good. It’s what he wanted.

It’s just that wanting it is waaaaaay fucking different from actually experiencing it.

Tom is vaguely aware of pulling on the cuffs, slowly and gently, over and over again every time Bill strokes his skin, wrapping his hands around the little bit chain that connects him to the headboard to give himself something to ground his brain in reality.

He doesn’t want to float off before he’s ready, going into subspace before he’s enjoyed the real pleasurable reality. This is the kind of moment that should be appreciated, and processed. 

“So good for me,” Bill praises, and those words - those precious words that he’s been desperate for all fucking day - make him shudder with pleasure and _pride._ Tom loves hearing that he’s good, that Bill approves of him, and he knows hand on heart that Bill recognises that, revels in it, and enjoys it, and fucking _wants more of it._

Tom will give it. All of it.

Which was exactly the reaction Bill was looking for before he moves to explore Tom’s dick. Tom doesn’t understand the direction Bill’s taking this in, but that’s nothing new. He tries to wallow in the sensation, focusing on that, so he doesn’t get frustrated with the lack of, you know, _sex sex._

It’s going to be amazing, Tom tells himself. 

“How do you feel, Tom?” Bill is being very gentle with the sensitive skin of Tom’s raging dick; his hands still cool with the lube as they touch lightly up and down.

“I-It’s…good!” he stutters as Bill thumbs the head, “I- So fucking good.”

“Just good?”

“Am-amazing!” Tom corrects himself quickly, hoping that Bill doesn’t mind the slip-up. “Amazing, Bill!”

“Do you want more?” More lazy strokes, but Tom still can’t come yet because Bill’s holding him around the base of his cock, making sure that nothing will happen, so it doesn’t feel quite as perfect as Tom wants it to be. “Answer me, Tom.”

He’s been quiet too long, and Bill changes his attack plan accordingly.

He applies more pressure.

“Yeeeeesssssssss…” Tom hisses out between clenched teeth as Bill presses behind his balls, sending sparks flying across his vision. “Fuck, I need more!”

This is when he fucking hates Bill’s patience. More than anything, Tom wants Bill to reflect how he himself feels inside, just like he reflects Tom’s face. But he doesn’t, and he won’t.That control is very very good. Bill just smiles at him.

“I love you, Tom,” he murmurs, sweetly.

Fuck him.

 “Love _you,”_ Tom counters. “Please, Bill!” He doesn’t know what Bill will do to him tonight. There’s never a way to anticipate correctly, really. Sometimes, Bill goes through phases - riding Tom, setting Tom up with a toy, making Tom watch him go to town on himself, rimming… but it’s never a hard science. Bill’s always up for a change, and Tom is just not good at predicting it.

But whatever it is, he’s ready for it. His dick is hard, leaking clear fluid from the oversensitive head, and he just fucking _needs_ some release right now, or he’ll die.       

Bill reaches for the lube again.


	11. Safety Nets and Words

 

“Breathe, Tom.”

Tom is breathing. Maybe. He might have stopped when Bill kissed him all of ten minutes ago, but he doesn’t care. Air is for other people - he’s too busy living on euphoria.

So, okay. He’s a total kiss junkie as well. Absolutely addicted to kisses, of any kind, in any way - from anyone, really, and that’s something he doesn’t know if he should be proud of or not, but Bill’s are the best. One hundred percent, totally and completely the fucking best.

That’s not news. Not anymore.

“Good boy.” Bill is drowning him in those words, letting them wrap around Tom like verbal silk, and Tom is in _heaven_ from it.

He doesn’t even care that Bill’s still edging him - he’s walking on fucking sunshine from kisses, and who the fuck cares about his dick now?

Bill does.

Another squirt of lube on his hands, and Bill’s back on Tom’s dick with those hands that Tom knows so fucking _well_ doing exactly what he’s been dreaming of for the last two weeks and change, even before he got slapped with Restriction.

“Good boy,” Bill praises him again, and Tom wallows in it.

So fucking good.

The chain under his fingers is slippery now, just enough that his fingers keep sliding up and down in time with his heaving chest, and the metal is heating up now, lukewarm instead of ice cold, and Tom revels in the change.

He spreads his knees wider, allowing Bill to see everything, and he doesn’t even try to push up, try to get Bill to move faster. Part of that is because he has to trust Bill to do what he plans, in his own time, and part of it is because Tom doesn’t think he _can_.

Everything - his abs, his thighs, his knees, have all turned to jelly, and he doesn’t trust his own body to hold him up.

But Bill’s hands are making their way down even further south, and you know? That’s just dandy with Tom.

“Relax, Tom...” he murmurs, waiting for Tom to give some kind of response other than a moan for more.

But Tom does wants more. He wants it all, but he whimpers and spreads his knees for Bill as wide as they will fucking go. It’s his only way to indicate his need, to show his willingness to give it all to Bill - and Bill accepts it.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

The look in his eyes is dangerous.

\--

Tom is reasonably fucking sure that he is dying.

Of amazing sex. Or, you know, he will be in fifteen minutes. Or maybe an hour. At some point in the future, certainly.

Because this will be. Amazing, he means. It’ll be fucking - oh, it’ll be fucking _glorious_. Five days of restraint, and ten days of Restriction, and _finally_ , Bill is preparing to fuck him.

Finally.

Tom can’t look down between his legs - he’ll lose it completely if he does - but he can feel Bill’s smile as he lubes up his fingers, presses them between Tom’s cheeks, tells him to breathe out slowly.

Tom isn’t sure if he should cry, or crack the champagne - if he could reach it - but it feels so fucking _right_.

He breathes in, shudders, breathes out, shudders again - it’s like the air has become a precious resource at the moment, and he has to focus every inch of his brain for each breath. Every intake of oxygen is hard won, and he doesn’t understand why. His hands tug at the chains, over and over again, and he arches up, his mouth open wide as he tries to breathe past the sensations.

Bill stops - his fingers were barely inside of Tom, and they both can tell that Tom is nowhere near prepped for sex - so it’s just plain confusing. Why is Bill stopping?

But when Tom opens his eyes again to look for Bill, to plead with him - he sees Bill on all fours over him, his hands almost but not quite touching Tom’s sides, looking at him with eyes that know what Tom wants, what he needs.

And then Bill kisses him.

This is them - skin to skin, and Bill’s reaching up a hand to hold Tom’s cheek still to **kiss** him properly, his hands cool and wet with lube, and it’s messy and weird, but it’s… it’s exactly what Tom wanted. He’s on the brink again - and fighting that is hard, because Bill doesn’t want him to come yet - but he’s never felt so connected to Bill.

He swears he can feel their hearts beating in time.

“So good, Tom,” Bill praises, and they’re lip to lip, almost, so close that Tom can almost feel Bill’s lashes on his own cheeks. This is how it should be. No pain, no hurt, just them, and being connected on every level.

Everything feels too much but at the same time, Tom wants more.

He knows Bill’s gonna wreck him tonight, drive him up on the shores of submission and leave him there for hours and fucking hours until there’s nothing left of Tom except his imprint. Bill’s going to absolutely destroy Tom’s self control, ruin every inch of Tom’s skin with kisses and hands and raw love, but that’s okay with Tom.

He wants to be split open and made to give it up because it’s the whole aim of this, and he knows he needs it.

But he wants it now.

Maybe Bill senses that from him. Maybe Tom is telling him it word for word; he’s not sure. The words coming out of his mouth aren’t ones he has control over.

But when he opens his eyes again, comes back to the present, he finds Bill back between his thighs, cross-legged, and the only signs that he ever moved are Tom’s tingling lips and Bill’s smile.

That little touch of love in the corner of his mouth makes Tom’s heart skip a beat.

“I have you.”

Bill does. He has Tom in both hands, holding him down more firmly than any chains or straps, and Tom knows that. He does. Bill’s got him so fucking mapped out and figured out and turned out that Tom is helpless against him.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He moans again as Bill’s fingers make their way back down between his cheeks, and he knows that it’s going to be a very interesting night.

He can feel that Bill’s changing pace, and his fingers, instead of being sly and just teasing inside Tom are more meaningful, stretching, testing boundaries, making sure Tom is ready. Nothing happens until Bill says it’s okay - until he wants it to, really, no matter how much Tom is begging and pleading and fucking promising the world.

Tom groans deep inside as Bill withdraws his fingers and reaches for the lube again.

It sucks. Bill’s self control is like iron clad, and he knows it. Tom’s tested it in every way he knows how - trying to jump Bill on the bus with a surprise blow job, rutting up against him in the middle of the night, teasing Bill on stage, in interviews, begging, pleading, flat out _demanding_. He’s learnt the hard way though.

Nothing moves Bill except Bill.

And Tom just has to lie back and take it.

\--

 

“What do you want?” Bill is kneeling between Tom’s open legs, holding his thighs apart, and not. doing. anything. that Tom needs. He’s aching, desperate and riding an edge so sharp, it’s like a razor.

“You!” He tries to snap - really, he does – but it comes out more like a fucking whimper, breathy and weak.

He’s so not going to win Bill over doing that, but fuck it.

Bill shakes his head, smiles at Tom.“What do you want?” he asks again, and his hand is just fisting Tom’s dick, over and over, steady, careful touches that are sending Tom’s brain into mush. He’s in no hurry to do anything - either to himself or to Tom - which is making Tom worried.

He worries easily, slipping and sliding between calm and not on a daily basis because of the stresses and strains of their lives. And inside the bedroom is no different.

Bill’s self control is very very good. Tom’s? Not so much. If Bill wants to delay this, make it last all fucking night, he will.  
And Tom won’t have any choice in it.

Not that he’s in any condition to _make_ a choice at the moment. He’s getting through this by drifting on the surface of his subspace, not quite ready to let the currents take him but enough to wallow in the sensations. Bill is leading him through it, one thing at a time, and that’s all Tom needs to depend on.

And Bill’s gearing up for something that will push Tom hard.

Bill totally would do that - playing the long game does _not_ begin to define Bill and his love of long and slow sex. Tom might revel in the rush and the retreat of pleasure in short, sharp bouts, but Bill… He’s something else entirely.

Tom’s brain churns, struggling to latch onto a single thought train as his dick sends him back messages of pleasure and the impending urge to orgasm. _What’s the right answer?_ It’s not Bill, or any variation of his name, and Tom knows that Bill won’t go for demanding a particular sex act, like a blow job or even kissing. It’s not up to Tom what happens, or how he’s pleasured at times like this, and they both know it.

So what the fuck does Bill want?

“A-anything?” He tries, offering Bill the choice of what to do to Tom, hoping it’s the right answer, but Bill smiles, shakes his head, slows his hand down from where it’s stroking Tom’s dick in long, lazy strokes.

“Try again, Tom.”

Fuck. Well, Tom does want to fuck, but that’s not the answer… he shifts, rocking his pelvis down, but Bill’s hand on his hip tells him not to do that again.

He wants Bill to touch him, to fuck him, to make love to him, to teach him something else new about himself, because that’s what sex means for Tom. He wants Bill’s hands, his mouth, his dick, his ass, anything and everything that Bill will give him, but Bill’s not letting him ask for that.

It’s something else.

Tom grips onto the chains attached to his cuffs, hears the headboard barely creak, and shudders his way through a deep sigh. _Think, Tom_ , he tells himself, and he’s this close to the edge already. Thinking is hard now.

What the hell. What the hell. How can he - what can he do to make this…

Words. Bill keeps asking for his words, and Tom is trying to give them to Bill, but he won’t accept them. What the - but…. - why is Bill doing that?

As Tom breathes and pants and moans and whimpers, Bill slows down, moving hand over hand less and less until Tom can’t feel him move at all, just holding onto Tom’s dick with one hand, cradling his balls with the other.

His face is expectant, but not demanding. He’s ready to wait for Tom to give him the answer he wants.

Fuck.

Tom spreads his knees further, presenting himself to Bill, and tries to engage his thinking brain.

Words. Bill wants words. But not any words - just some very specific words that Tom has to know and he doesn’t, but Bill thinks he does -

Oh.

_Oh_.

Tom would hit himself upside the head if he wasn’t still cuffed to the headboard. Stupid, that’s what he is…

The look in Bill’s eyes tells him he’s got it even though neither of them have said a word. The depth of their connection is that fucking strong that Bill can read him in silence, and Tom lets him.

As if he could stop him, anyway.

Bill wants _words_ , but not just any words. He want specific ones. The words that Tom’s been avoiding for days. The words that give Tom power in this relationship even though he’s still so… uncomfortable with using them for some stupid, ridiculous reason.

His safewords.

Bill’s trying to get him use them, to understand how they work from a practical level even though he’s aware of them in some abstract way already after years of being taught them.

Tom shudders, and Bill hums softly. It reassures Tom, lets him know that Bill’s not changing anything about this evening except pushing it on again towards another part of Bill’s plan.

He lets go of Tom’s dick and his balls, pressing his hands on Tom’s hips instead. “Good boy,” he praises, and Tom needs Bill’s words now. He needs to be told that he’s got it, or that he’s not got it too, but being told that Bill is pleased with him, that he’s being good is better. It makes him feel safer, less like he’s two steps away from falling over the cliff edge. “The first one?”

“G-Green.” Green is good. Green means Tom’s way more than okay with whatever Bill’s doing - or not doing as the case may be. It means he’s loving it. It’s exactly what he needs or wants, and he’s not in pain - not the bad kind anyway - and everything’s going well. Green is what he wants to be saying.

“Again.”

“Green.” The word flows out of Tom, and it feels good to say.

“The second?” Bill’s hands slip further down, rubbing small circles either side of Tom’s dick now, and it’s encouragement to keep going.

Tom swallows, closes his eyes until he feels like he’s got enough brain to his name to give a proper answer.

“Amber.” Amber is not good, amber is _Bill, check in with me_ , amber is a sign that something needs to change. Amber is the first one that Tom can’t use - he can tell Bill he loves it until the end of time, but saying he’s not okay… it challenges him inside.

He doesn’t like being weak, and amber means being weak.

Not through his own fault and not logically, but Tom doesn’t do logical. He does stupid and irrational and needing to be guided and helped to find the right words, and actions, and mindset.

“Say it again.” Bill’s fingers are warm, and his eyes are fixed on Tom’s.

“Amber.” Amber should be protection - even though it’s just a word, it’s Tom’s trust in Bill. He knows that Bill will listen to him. Tom knows that, and he understands it too. Amber isn’t just for his sake - sometimes, he gets lost, and Amber brings him back because Bill wants to stop and see where they are.

“Again.”

“A-amber.” Bill’s eyes are staring into Tom, right down into his soul it feels like, waiting for him to make the connection, to understand what _amber_ actually means.

“Good.” Tom revels in the praise, and his grip on the cuffs loosens a little. Just a little.

“And the last one?” Bill’s hands are precise as they move closer together, almost but not quite touching Tom’s dick. Nargh, so fucking close, and Tom shudders.

Red. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply again, but it catches deep inside of him. He doesn’t want to say it because it’s a psychological block, and he doesn’t understand why.

“Say your word, Tom.”

It’s not his word, Tom snaps back inside his head, but it is _his_. It’s his own word, his ability to shove back against Bill with the most authority he’ll ever have.

Red.

Red.

Red.

When Bill taught him these words, it was after a lot of experimentation - they were starting to play more seriously, and they needed to define the safety nets they’d always had based in feelings and a fluid, unspoken push and pull. They’d tried a lot - Kas and Scotty and Ivan (the parrot), guitar, bass, and drums, all the basics that Tom knew by heart, but he couldn’t connect those words with sex and limits and different levels of response.

So Bill stripped it back, right to the basics - green, amber, red.

And it’s been working okay for a few years now, but like everything else in their life, it needs changing - upgrading, renewal, reaffirmation to make it good again.

Nothing stays the same in their world - it’s all change, all the time, or so it feels, and Tom hates it.

He like stability. He likes things that stay the same day after day and year after year, but he can’t have that. Music needs to adapt, and so does he, but it’s not balanced.

Bill gives him that when the management can’t, when even the music inside of him doesn’t want to flow.

“We’re going back, Tom.” Bill’s hands spread his thighs wider, exposing every inch of his groin. “Right back to the beginning.”

“Wha-”

“The only words I want from you tonight,” and that’s not at all ominous, “are your safewords. That’s all I need from you.”

 

Tom nods.

Whether Bill is going to get them is something else entirely, but he can understand the task at hand - Bill’s giving it to him on a silver platter almost.

Almost.

Tom knows it won’t be that easy.

But he’s got to trust Bill.

Bill loves him. Tom knows that, hand on heart, inside and out. He’s wrapped up around Tom’s heart, threading his way through Tom’s myriad of defences and issues, between the confusion and the need for sex and love with confidence. Bill gives him everything he needs, and even though Tom doesn’t want this, even though he doesn’t want to be taken right back to the basics and made to give Bill only his words when he could give him his mouth, his dick, his hands - everything that Tom possesses -

He knows it’s the right thing.

 

\--

 

Bill holds Tom down, one hand on his neck, the other on Tom’s backside, a steady warning over the red handprint he’s already got for trying to power play. Ten fucking minutes in, and he’s already been cautioned once already. He tried to back onto Bill’s dick before Bill was ready, needing to do something, but it wasn’t allowed.

“Be good for me, Tom,” Bill admonished him, and Tom _is_ fucking trying. It’s so hard….

But now, Bill’s pressing into him, a slow and steady movement, and Tom can’t breathe through it. He’s always tight like a fucking virgin, clenching down until Bill can’t move - fuck, Tom, Bill gasps out - and even with a long time of prepping, having Bill slick up his fingers, push them into Tom, scissoring them gently, letting Tom get used to the stretch inside of himself… It’s still not easy.

But they make it work. And Bill fucking loves it.

Tom grasps the chains still connecting him to the headboard, feeling his fingers slip and slide on the now warm metal, and he prays. What for, he’s not sure. Maybe for release, maybe for this to be over, maybe for it to never end. He’s not altogether sure on anything anymore.

Not until Bill bottoms out, his hips finally touching Tom’s backside, does Tom breathe, a stuttering, gasping inhale of air that sounds terrible in the silence of the room.

Bill runs a hand down Tom’s spine, reassuring him, and Tom bows his head, trying to breathe.

Tom doesn’t care about breathing again. He’s revelling in the feeling of being full, of Bill’s dick inside of him, and it’s exactly what he wanted, what he’s been fucking craving for the last ten days, and more.

Bill isn’t huge - in the fun case there are a dozen sex toys that are bigger than Bill - some significantly so to the point of being scary - and Tom’s experienced most of them, but he’s not small either. Tom can feel every inch of his twin inside of him, right down to the heartbeat that they share.

It feels good. It feels right.

Tom’s not adverse to latex, or to rubber or whatever else the toys that Bill likes to use on him are made of, but nothing - abso-fucking-lutely nothing - beats the real thing. Nothing. Not even the most expensive toys can change it.

It’s always been his thing - Bill likes toys, and accessories, and everything else that you can buy over the internet, because he likes the control and the distance he can create with them. He likes nipple clamps and paddles, and dildoes and butt plugs, and rings and harnesses and maybe it’s because he likes things to hold onto, but that’s Bill.

For Tom, it’s all about the real thing. Skin to skin, touching, feeling, kisses, licking…. It’s physical, and it’s real. Tom likes people. He likes the warmth of their skin, the feeling of their hands in his, the way a woman can be wet and slick for his mouth, for his fingers, or even for his dick, and it’s always just fucking amazing, and a guy can be too, the tip of his dick leaking precome all over Tom’s hand, or on his belly…

Or his face.

He needs that connection to take it all the way to the top, and Bill’s giving it to him now.

“So _good_ …”

Tom gasps out a half laugh because Bill’s always amazed at how tight Tom can be, even though they’ve had sex hundreds of times. He gets another stroke down over the handprint from the smack earlier, a warning to focus, but he doesn’t care.

He knows he’s riding dangerously close now, but Bill’s made the choice for him.

The pace that Bill sets is enough to make Tom wish it was faster, but he knows that Bill won’t be rushed. It’s gentler than they normally are, but Tom doesn’t push it.

He revels in the sensations instead, using the time to wallow in them instead of pushing for more. He feels the way Bill’s body fits against his own perfectly, the way that Bill’s hands on his back, on his shoulders feel right, the way that his kisses down Tom’s neck feel like brands in his skin, and it’s exactly what he wants.

Sex is sex is sex, but Bill is an artist.

And Tom is his canvas.

Bill knows exactly what he wants to do and Tom rides the waves of sensation, the kisses and the touches building and making him feel closer and closer to Bill.

“Colour.” Bill whispers, but Tom still hears it.

“Green.” That’s easy. He loves to use that one, and this time is no different - Bill rewards him with a stroke down his spine, soothing away the small amount of tension that’s built up around the base of his spine.

“Again.”

“Green.” Green like the trees in the orchard when Bill made love to him in dappled shade, green the colour of Bill’s favourite blindfold, green like the colour of the soap that Bill uses, the smell of sandalwood and clary sage so strong for Tom that he always associates with Bill now.

Green is easy.

Tom likes green.

“Again.” Bill demands, and Tom gives him the word again, and again, and again. He’s okay - he’s more than okay. He’s so fucking good right now.

 

\--

 

 

“Give me your word, Tom.” Bill pulls on his dreads, making him lift his chin to expose his throat to Bill’s gaze, and Tom does it.

Mostly willingly.

They’ve moved now - Tom is on his back, one leg hitched over Bill’s hip as he’s fucked slow and steady into the mattress, and he fucking loves this position normally. It’s not one of their usual ones for some reason, and every time they do it, Tom wants to ask why because it should be. Bill can’t get as deep inside, but Tom loves the way he can see everything and that Bill can kiss him easily.

Yeah, he likes kisses. He loves them like air and water because they make his world go around.

Bill’s not using his mouth for kisses though.

He’s pushing for more words, and Tom shifts restlessly, pulling on the cuffs that are still threaded through the headboard, but Bill hums a _no, Tom,_ and urgh, Tom does stop shifting - letting Bill rock his hips into Tom’s.

“Am-am…” He’s not at Amber yet - he’s not a million miles away from it, but he can go more, can take more, and give it as well. But Bill wants the word, and he will get it.

One way or another.

“Come on, Tom…” He slows his hips, making each thrust and pull deep and slow. “Give it to me…”

“Amb-” one letter more this time, and Tom swallows, gripping the chain between his hands again even though it’s twisted up and taut as fuck.

Tom knows that Bill is pushing him, deliberately driving him further and further along that path, because God knows, Tom wouldn’t do himself.

If it was up to him, he’d fuck the words, and leave them out altogether because he doesn’t like limits, and rules, and staying within the boundaries (admittedly, Bill’s boundaries are often like a billion miles apart) but it’s the concept.

He hates being confined by rules, and he would rather play dangerously than safely sometimes.

And that’s why Tom does not get to control everything.

But Tom also knows that Bill isn’t doing this casually.

Bill doesn’t do _casual._

He does plans, and rules, and careful consideration about how best to go at something, even if to Tom, to everybody else, it’s a totally spontaneous decision. Bill will be watching every inch of Tom, monitoring his reactions, checking his stress levels, and deciding at every stage whether or not to pull the plug.

That’s why Bill gets to be in charge.

Well, that and the fact that Tom needs guidance. And rules. And Bill… just fits with him.

“Again, Tom.”

“Bill!”

“Again, Tom.” Slow and steady fucking, that’s what Bill does best, and he’s doing it now, letting Tom know exactly what’s expected of him, and Tom bites his lip.

He’s okay. Bill has him. Bill’s got him and all Tom has to do is give him the word, let it go and Bill’ll catch it, catch him too -

“A-am-amber!” Fuck.

Tom shudders and lets himself fall into Bill’s hands.

He said it. Amber.

Amber the colour of the traffic lights when he and Bill were separated by the teachers, and Tom ran all the way home on his own because he couldn’t take it, but Bill was the one who found him again.

Amber, the colour of the honey when Bill fed him for the first time, and Tom wouldn’t give in because he didn’t understand the feeling of giving up, but he did in the end.

Amber, the colour of Bill’s eyes in the blazing Florida sun when they were tired and overstressed, and Tom got so pissed in the hotel room, he could barely function, and Bill had to carry him through the day, and it was so hard for both of them.

Amber is not good, and Tom doesn’t have too many positive associations with the word.

At all.

But Bill’s praising him, running his hands down Tom’s belly, massaging his way through into Tom’s world of whirling thoughts, and Tom shakes and breathes.

He’s not back in those places anymore - Bill is here, and they’re good, and he’s being asked about something that he should know inside out and back to front by now, and he shudders from the release of tension.

“Again.” Bill’s hands are warm on Tom’s belly, spreading their heat through touch and something deeper, and Tom breathes in once, twice, a third time.

He can do this.

“Amber.”

Bill smiles at him, and Tom lets himself fall into it, throwing himself into the love that he sees there.

 

\--

 

 

“Come on, Tom….Just one more word…”

Bill’s words are easy, but what he’s asking Tom isn’t, and he doesn’t want to let go that bit even though he should, even though he should give it up like a waving flag of surrender.

He grips the headboard again, braces his knees apart for Bill, tries to rock his hips again.

Bill’s hands on his squeeze tight, and Tom knows not to do that.

They’re back to missionary, back to the very basics, and Tom knows this position because it’s usually his favourite. But Bill’s pushing him hard, using short, shallow thrusts that remind Tom of what he wants but can’t have, and because Bill is right there, right up in Tom’s face, he can’t run away, can’t hide in the sheets or his arms.

Bill’s not letting him go now.

“You know this one, Tom…”

He does.

It’s red. And he hates it. He fucking hates it, because it means they need to stop and not just reset - it means stopping and turning up the lights, taking away the toys and…

Talking.

Opening up.

Finding out what went wrong. What _Tom_ did wrong.

Tom knows it’s actually supposed to be non-judgemental - when it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, and nobody’s to blame because accidents happen, and sometimes, things that seem cool on paper really aren’t in reality, but nobody could predict everything down to the ground.

But he feels…

He feels guilt.

And he knows he shouldn’t.

But he does.

“Come on, Tom,” Bill says unexpectedly, and Tom stares up at him, wondering why Bill’s doing that - “Let me in…”

“Bi-”

“Shush…” Bill’s still buried balls deep inside Tom, hard and ready and Tom feels every inch of him. Tom throws back his head. He wants movement, and change, but Bill’s slowed everything down to a stand still, making their progress forward dependent on Tom’s answer. “Give me the word, Tom…”

He prays for mercy. “I can’t - “

“Yes, you can.” Bill presses his forehead to Tom’s, and he’s so fucking in Tom’s face, reaching inside for his soul that it’s almost hurting. “Let me in....”

Why is Bill telling him to let him in? Bill _is_ in, all the way inside of Tom from his heart to his soul and everything in between, so what more can Tom do?

He shifts, biting his lip, whimpers but Bill’s still there, right in front of Tom, and he’s just rocking his hips so slow - so, so slowly that Tom wants to rock down to meet him, but he knows he shouldn’t.

Red.

Red, like blood when Tom’s bites his lip too hard after an orgasm and like ice cold strawberries that Bill hand-feeds him when he’s exhausted, crying, and sore after a session, and the colour of Tom’s backside after Bill’s spanked him for the first time. Red like his nipples after Bill tried him with the clamps for the first time, and red like the colour of the sheets on Bill’s bed when Tom’s face first into them and screaming for release but nobody can hear him because of the soft smothering in his mouth.

It’s just a colour.

It means more than that.

It means that Bill know that Tom can’t do it all. That he can’t take it all, that he can’t keep it all together.

He’ll know that Tom isn’t perfect.

Only for Bill.

“I know, I know…” Bill’s whispering, but Tom hears every word of it. “I know, Tom… Give me the word, though…”

What is he admitting if he says the word? What more can it say than everything in the last ten days - the Restriction, the chastity belts and cages, the enemas and the taking of Tom right down deep into subspace - does anyway? He’s failed to control himself, he’s broken Bill’s rules, he’s lost his sight of the rules and the way things work.

If he’d used his words, it would have been explained to him, they would have worked through it together, and he wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.

Not using the word has put him here, and using it…

Will let him out again.

“I _know_ ,” Bill murmurs.

“-ed” Tom shudders out a breath, and the word just slips out, half a syllable too short for Bill’s liking, but it’s more than Tom expected.

“Again.” Bill is staring intently down at Tom, but he can’t take it.

He squirms, panting, his chest heaving but Bill shakes his head, pushes him back to the right position, asks again.

“Give me your word, Tom.”

“R-red…” He throws his head back, staring at the ceiling, and the word doesn’t fight him, doesn’t come out hard and flat, landing between them like an unexploded bomb, loaded with connotations and unfairness.

It’s just a white flag on his lips, waving in the air.

“I have you…” And Bill does have him, inside and out, braced over Tom, focused on him so intently that Tom feels like he’s under a searchlight. “Good boy…”

He’s said it.

The world didn’t crumble.

He’s come through the other side of the word, and Bill’s still there, sheathed to the hilt inside of him, and loving him all the same.

“I love you.”


	12. Story is continued

Story is continued! Chapter 13 is the next chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

“I love you.”

That’s the best thing Bill could say right now. Tom’s been split open, divided into _I’m in heaven_ and drowning in emotions. Hearing that Bill loves him, that he’s _there_ for Tom, pushes him further into the former, and away from the latter.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Kisses.” Tom’s a kiss whore. A slut for them. He can’t get enough of the slip and slide of Bill’s lips on his, the way Bill holds his cheek or the back of his neck so he can control the pace, the beautiful moments when Bill takes a detour, kissing down Tom’s neck or around up to his forehead. “Please - I need - I _want_ kisses.”

Bill didn’t ask what he needed. He asked what Tom _wanted,_ and all he wants is kisses. Bill would give him the world, but he doesn’t want the world, and that always makes Bill smile and shake his head.

Tom’s never denied he’s easy to please.

Kisses, touches, sex, even just a smile or a text message at the right moment, that’s all he needs to recover himself, or push him into a warm, safe mind-set. It’s all he ever needs to get him through the day. And he doesn’t want for it _at all_ because Bill never stops giving him kisses and love.

“Alright.” He knows that little smile on Bill’s mouth - the love and humor tucked into the corner of it, telling him how it amuses Bill that Tom is so predictable, so fixated on something so simple.

But he gives in, lets Tom have what he’s so desperate for.

Deep open-mouthed kissing is something of an acquired skill, needing time, patience, and dedication to learn, but Tom’s been learning for years, and it’s _wonderful._ So intimate, so close, so… special.

He’s a romantic at heart, even if he pretends he’s not.

Kissing is soothing. It brings him back from desperation, from the astronomical sense of _need_ and _must come_ he had before, and now he’s in the here and now. He’s back in the room, back under Bill, back _exactly where he belongs._

Where he wants to be.

He needed that relief, that brief respite from the intensity of the scene. Kissing bought him precious moments to breathe, close his eyes, and stop fighting for control, stop pushing against Bill, and the rules.

Bill’s pushing him into the sheets. The pillow behind his back is damp and hot with his sweat, and he’s trembling like an addict needing a fix. He is an addict, and that fix is something he’s been waiting _weeks_ for, long before Bill placed him on Restriction. He needed it, was jonesing for it, desperate for the touch and the contact that meant Bill was holding him firm and tight in his control, and he’d been too wound up himself to realise that was what he needed.

_Every_ nerve feels alive and ready to feel, and _it feels good._

Tom likes feeling good. He loves the rush and the buzz of sex, the amazing feeling of orgasm, and he likes feeling someone else’s body so close to his. Their hands in his, their lips on his, their legs intertwined with his, as close as they can get without becoming one. It’s beautiful.

That’s what Bill is to him, right now. So close.

He’s still pulling on the chains that bind him to the headboard, the mass of metal and leather that keeps him on his back, but that might change soon.

 

**\---**

 

Unchained and free for the first time in what feels like forever, Tom holds onto Bill as though he’ll be taken away at any moment.

It’s just so _good_ to be able to touch when he wants to - when he _needs_ to - and he wants to feel everything.

Pressed skin to skin with Bill, there is _nothing_ between them.

And he can’t get enough of it.

Bill unfastened his cuffs only moments ago, sliding the thick leather straps out of the cuffs while Tom arched his back, eager to be able to move again. He doesn’t let up talking, either, constantly murmuring in Tom’s ear about how much he _loves_ him, how much Bill _needs_ this just as much as he does…

When Bill placed Tom’s hands on his own chest, allowing Tom to touch the silver bar bolted through his nipple and run his fingers down the tattoo on his side (their tattoo, about screaming into the void because there’s nobody else to hear them - their world is _theirs)_ , Tom knew he had been released from his bondage.

But not his submission.

“Spread your knees.”

He spreads them wide, letting Bill kneel between them. Bill reaches for the box of condoms on the side, strips off the old one. Maybe the old one felt a bit loose, maybe he just wanted to change. Tom doesn’t care.

He wants to be wrapped around Bill completely. Inside and out.

  
**\---**

 

Tom curls his fingers in the soft, damp hair at the nape of Bill’s neck. He’s crossed the line now.  Bill has given him permission to touch, to let himself feel everything that he’s had to hold back for _ten days,_ and he’s ready to give in.

 To let it happen.

 And that’s what this whole thing has been about.

 It’s about trusting the world around him to give him what he needs, when he needs it. To stop reaching and grabbing for everything in fear that he’s not going to get his fair share of touch, of love, of attention and sex and orgasms.

 He does that a lot. Tomorrow is never coming, in his book, so he has to live for today, and that means wanting it all and wanting it _now._ Sometimes, it works. They live and work in an industry where there’s always something new and different coming along, so if you want it, you have to make your commitment now or never.

 But Bill’s never going anywhere, and Tom needed to learn that. There’s always a tomorrow when it comes to Bill.

 He spreads his knees wider, allowing Bill to get as close as possible.

 “Do you want to come?”

 This is the result of being edged so hard - he reaches a point where his need to come retreats and Bill has to actively work him back over the line again until he can, with fingers and mouth, and encouragement. But he doesn’t feel nearly as desperate as he did before, when he was pushing his face into Bill’s crotch and offering the world for a blowjob.

He would still give Bill the world for it, though. He loves it that much.

“Yes.” He does. It’s gone beyond the point where it’s a physical desperation, and now, it’s tied up in emotions and just letting go of what Bill has uncovered.

The worry and the frustration and the pain in his own mind that was making him act out, making him push the boundaries until someone shoved him right back, made him take each and every step the other way across the line that he’d transgressed, all of it is leaving him now that he’s trusting Bill again.

It feels good to do it.

It always has done.

Bill encourages him to spread himself as wide as possible. Tom really should take up yoga like that website recommended, because Bill likes him to spread wide as he can, and it’s already starting to generate an ache deep in his thighs, but he’s **desperate** for anything and everything.

And so is Bill.

He doesn’t always get so wound up as Tom, but the way he’s not quite as careful as he normally is, the way he’s almost a little _rough_ as he touches Tom - all of it points to the fact that Bill too is ready for everything to be over.

It’s been a hellish two weeks.

For them both.

Bill’s hand on Tom’s dick is firm, pulling the orgasm out of him with tight fingers and a complete expectation that Tom _will_ give in, will come. He won’t be denied.

And Tom knows it.

He knows it so well, it’s engraved on his bones, carved down deep into his flesh because that’s how they are. Bill will demand and Tom will give. Bill is demanding his orgasm. And Tom will let it happen.

He closes his eyes, lets the rushing feelings overwhelm his senses. It feels so fucking good - it’s the same as a rush from the gym, or from a great show but more, and better, and higher. Behind him, he can hear Bill jacking off as well, the sound of slick flesh on flesh as familiar to him as his guitar or a microphone.

As one comes, so must the other. His body yields to Bill’s fingers, like it always does, and he feels the ache in his pelvis recede as Bill’s fingers are stained with white.  

“Let go, baby. I’m here; I’ve got you…”

He falls, but he knows Bill will be there to catch him.

 

\---

 

Bill pushes him again, and god, Tom does **_not_ ** want to do this, but he _does._ It’s the weirdest, most difficult thing his body goes through when Bill pushes him to come again and again after he’s already done it, but it feels so good when he finally gets there. It feels like he’s physically transcending his body and actually reaching that place where the only thing he feels is absolute pleasure.

Dry orgasms are harder to reach, but so much more intense for their privilege.

“Come on, baby.” Bill is talking to him, urging him on and up, back into climax, with his hands soft and slippery with more lube around Tom’s dick. He’s sensitive down there, and wants to pull away but he can’t because Bill is still getting him to move. Tom is _trying._ God, is he trying. He wants to come again. After being edged for _days,_ being pushed to the brink and back again dozens of times, he’s nowhere near finished after just one orgasm.

He always wants more. That’s his thing; one is never enough. He needs to come - his body is ready to go - but something is stopping him, and it’s probably because he’s not _quite_ in the zone.

Bill’s pushed him and pulled him onto his hands and knees, spreading wide from behind so Bill can lean over him, snaking his arm underneath Tom until he can reach around to jack him off again. The second time always requires much more stimulation for Tom – it’s not just a handy that he needs to come again. He needs full body contact, Bill touching him _everywhere_ until he drowns in the sensations.

It’s called _overloading,_ and it took them a while to figure it out. The way to push Tom into dry orgasm is to give his brain so much pleasure, so many sources of feedback – touch, sound, visual – all over his body until it doesn’t know what to do anymore. Then, and only then, can he come.

He shudders and digs his fingers deep into the soft down of the pillow underneath him. This is a marathon, he reminds himself, not a sprint. There will be no quick orgasm. It’s about the slow almost-but-not-quite pain that’s still resonating throughout his body from the last climax.

“Breathe, Tom.”

They’re working through this together. Bill is rocking into him slow and deep, letting Tom feel every single inch of his dick, and Bill is **not** small. He’s not massive, because he’s nowhere near Gustav’s size (few are, in Tom’s opinion, outside of the porn industry), but everything feels huge when it’s inside, and all Tom wants to do is howl.

He wants to actually howl. He’s that close to the wall, and the way Bill is firmly pressing on his prostate and pulling on his dick at the same time is pushing every button he has, hard. He’s hardwired to give in, and it’s taking so much to fight it, to push himself away from the edge and stay in the here and now.  

If it wasn’t for the fact they’re in a hotel and not at home, he would be louder than he’s ever been, but he’s pushing the words down deep inside so they only come out as a whisper.

Before, Bill wanted his words and Tom had to give them; now, Bill is content to let him speak at the volume he can manage.

Under his breath, he keeps up a steady stream of _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ with an occasional, _i can’t,_ but Bill and he both know he can. It takes a lot, but he can, and it’s so _close._ He can feel it in his bones, in the ache in his belly, the feeling of a heavy weight settling into his pelvis.

His entire body pouring its strength into pleasure and away from everything else.

When it comes, it’s not the crushing tidal wave of the previous orgasm, where he lost himself in the feeling. It’s more like a receding, like everything going away and leaving him exposed. He knows he ends up biting the pillow, face down in the soft filling and his whole body just…

Gives in.

Breathes out and won’t breathe in again until there’s nothing left to exhale. The pleasure is in the relief, the feeling that his body has given up all stress and tension, given up holding him upright and fighting it. He knows he cries out when he finally orgasms, rocking his hips back into Bill’s so he’s as deep as he can get.

He’s overloading _himself_ now, fighting for every single sensation to turn up to eleven so he can focus on them and nothing else. His brain turns off the thinking, making him exist only as a _feeling_ being, and it’s so good.

So good.

Underneath the pleasure is _relief,_ sweet, soft, emotional relief.

He doesn’t notice Bill pulling out, doesn’t feel Bill pushing two fingers back into him, riding his prostate with quick and firm strokes to really make sure Tom is lost in the sensations of his body. He’s gone. Completely gone, and he won’t come back for a while yet. 

Even when Bill pulls his fingers out again, Tom will still be riding the shockwaves for a while. He always does. Each one is smaller than the last, less intense, but he’ll still take a good fifteen or twenty minutes to coast on them down to the point where he returns to himself, is able to be make sense of the world and what happened.

It’s like when he has an enema but different; the overloading comes from pleasure with little pain, and it’s nowhere near as sharp or as brutal. The after effects don’t last as long, though, and sometimes, he craves the pain. He needs it to cut into him, to pierce through the fog of anger and frustration and desperation.

Now, Tom wallows in the softer sensation of pleasure overloading his system, flooding his nerves and muscles and bones with clean relief.

Bill helps him down, back to the mattress. God, it’s a long way back to there, and Tom almost wants to recoil, push up rather than go down easy and careful, but he lets Bill do what he needs to. He has no energy to fight now. None at all.

 

**\---**

 

Bill strips off the condom, carefully tying a knot in the latex before throwing it into the bin beside the bed. It’s a well-practised, fluid motion, and Tom knows it so well. It’s kind of the beginning step down after sex, the act that signals everything’s over, and Bill’s back to being Bill.

Not _Bill._ Not the Bill who pushes and forces Tom to find his limits, move beyond them, and play in the unknown, in absolutes - pain or pleasure.

“I’ll be right back, baby, okay?” He holds Tom by the chin, gently but unrelentingly pushing his way into Tom’s fuzzy afterglow until he gets a nod. It only takes a few seconds, but it feels much much longer. He went _deep_ this time _,_ apparently, and now he doesn’t want Bill to go away, but equally he knows that clinging onto Bill now will only result in him being sticky, sweaty and covered in his own mess, and _still_ worn out.

He doesn’t know how long he’s out for - not asleep but not fully awake and aware either. When he stirs again, checking to see where his twin is, he can see Bill through the open door into the bathroom. He’s not paying attention to Tom, though. Instead, he’s focused on the mirror. Tom watches through half-closed eyes as Bill works from head to toe with the flannel, each movement calm and deliberate as he wipes away his sweat and the slick of sex until all that’s left is the tattoos and clean, pale skin.

Tom doesn’t even want to do that. He’s completely bathed in both his own sweat and semen, and he might even have some of both in his _hair_ (to say nothing of the bedsheets) but holy God on earth, he doesn’t care. Bill promised to wreck him, to drive him way up on the beaches of submission, and he did it.

And it feels so good.

Tom has no tension left, no worry, no pain or any kind of negative emotion inside of him. Nothing but pleasure and relief. He’s not ready for any kind of serious weighty emotion, but that’s okay. It can wait.

For the first time in what feels like _weeks,_ Tom has nothing more pressing to feel, to experience, than to lie still and let the universe just exist around him.

It feels _incredible._

It’s not like before when Bill gave him the enema or when Bill was trying to edge him, when he felt like he was abandoned at sea, lost and at the mercy of the waves that moved him without care or attention - the needs of the band, the fans, security, the constant interviews, the incessant lack of time alone, the ever present need to be on point and performing to a high standard _all the time_. This time, he feels as though he’s just drifting on top of the waves, letting them take him wherever he needs to go.

A cold touch to his thigh makes him start, but it’s just Bill, holding a new, clean wash cloth at his side to clean him off.

Whatever.

After the rough and emotionally draining sex they just had, it feels like this is the counterbalance. Bill’s turned on some soft music - something with bells and wave sounds with possible whale song - and the lights are very low. With everything that just happened, it’s exactly what Tom needs.

Bill is careful in wiping Tom down. Twice, he goes back to the bathroom to rinse and rewet the cloth, but he doesn’t say anything.

Nothing needs to be said.

This is their usual way to wind down after a _scene._ They need some distance between them after such an intense, emotional release. It’s just enough to pull back a little, let things settle before they come close again.

But Tom appreciates why Bill pushed them both so hard.

It hurt to be made to let go, to give in and say the words he’s been avoiding for so long. He was never going to get there without it, though. He knows that much. They both know it; Tom’s very stubborn when he wants to be, and he _had_ dug his heels in deep against being honest. By denying the words he needed to say, he was also denying Bill his love and attention, and his job the same. He was focusing inwards when he shouldn’t have been.

So Bill backed him into a corner and made him give it up, letter by letter, syllable by syllable until he had said the words over and over and over again. _Red, amber, green. Red, amber, green._

_Red._

 

_Amber._

 

_Green._

Until they could flow out of his mouth as easily as Bill’s name.

It hurt, but it feels good, now. Gone is the dull ache of the ball of worry and frustration he’s had sitting right in the middle of his chest for _weeks,_ fading away until he can barely remember what it felt like. It sat there, filling out his body under his lungs and creeping up by his heart until he stopped wanting to eat, to exercise, stopped wanting to _breathe_ because it wouldn’t go away. It was panic and stress that put it there, and of course, the more he became aware of it, the more it grew and made life difficult.

He breathes in, just to feel what it’s like to enjoy not feeling it and lets it go in a long, deep sigh. It’s definitely gone. So now, he’s just going to lie here, melting into the mattress. Bill can get up, wander around the room to pack away the cuffs and the chains and everything else, but Tom is just going to lie here and look and follow Bill around the room with his eyes. That’s about all that he has the energy for right now.  

“Are you with me?” Bill looks wrecked as well as he leans against the vanity chair, carefully untangling the nest of bracelets, rings, and necklaces he removed when he was in the bathroom. Even though the fluids of sex are gone, the red flush of it is still fading away down his neck and - wow. Tom eyes the tiny wounds on Bill’s shoulders in the mirror behind him, the dull purplish beginnings of bruises where he obviously clung on and refused to let go.

 Oh. _He_ did that.

Twisting himself around to see what’s making Tom turn red again, Bill whistles long and low. “Nat’ll go mad when she sees these.”

Tom can _feel_ the blush starting in his cheeks, but it won’t stop there, and he knows if he looks down, it will have spilled across his chest and down his neck as well, because Tom can’t hide anything _ever._ Bill’s looking at himself in the full length mirror now, having moved to the wall to examine the damage closer, touching the little red half moons that Tom left on his skin, the bigger, rounder bruises on his neck from kisses that were too much, too rough.

Bill’s image as a virgin is as paper thin as Tom’s lady’s man vibe, but for some reason, nobody really wants to look past it very much. Maybe it’s because Bill is far more convincing when he talks about true love and waiting for the right hearts to reach the same place at the same time.

Too bad for everybody else that those hearts met way back before anyone else could ever even get a look in.

“Do you mind?” They’re pretty big, and Bill doesn’t usually let Tom mark him up because it’s just too difficult to explain to the world, but Tom _likes_ it. Bill’s allowed to be possessive of him, allowed to mark him and claim him and _make_ him take it, but it’s rare that the reverse happens.

He doesn’t remember doing it, either, which is both really hot and very confusing. He just knows he wanted _all_ of Bill as soon as he was allowed to touch, and apparently, that also included with his mouth.

“Not at all.” The smile that Bill has on his face is very content. Tom might even venture as far as _smug,_ almost. He looks so happy in his reflection as he touches the bruises that Tom’s left scattered up and down his neck. They’re messy, sloppy; irregularly spaced and rough edged, nothing like the careful rosary of kiss marks that Bill leaves around _Tom’s_ neck or across his thighs or chest. “Most of these will go by morning anyway, so…” He shrugs. “Natalie can cover the rest.”

Not the first time, and it won’t be the last that she’s had to do that.

But Tom can’t get over it. Bill rarely looks like that, like he’s been properly _ravaged,_ and **_Tom_ ** was the cause of it. It feels… He’d call it pride but that’s not the right word, surely?

“How do you feel?” Turning away from the mirror (and Tom’s confusion), Bill scoops up Tom’s clothes from where they were thrown into the corner at the beginning of the night. Despite still being naked, apart from the piercings and tattoos, he moves as easily as if he were still fully clothed. It’s not that Bill’s a true naked freak - neither of them have ever been tempted by the nudist beaches, despite Georg’s pleading - but Bill has always been comfortable in his own skin, free of the inhibition of the rest of the population when it comes to clothes or a lack of them.

Tom is profoundly not the same. Even now, he reaches down to the floor, dragging the topsheet from where Bill threw it  in order to cover himself up again. The soft, dove-grey cotton is cool from the air conditioning, and he shivers, but he still pulls it closer.

The quiet chuckle he gets from Bill tells him that his twin still can read him like a book, but he lets it go. Of course Bill can read him. He always could. Instead, Tom finds himself mesmerized by the way Bill deftly folds the clothes from earlier in the evening, laying them over the back of the vanity chair, smoothing out the creases with gentle movements. There’s no reason to. Tomorrow, they’ll send them down to the laundry service, and nobody cares about creases in dirty laundry. But Bill still does it, and Tom’s still captivated by the act. The hands that played Tom like a fine-tuned instrument are at work again, and it really shouldn’t get to him, but if Tom had _anything_ left to give, it would.

Hands are a very strange thing to be obsessed by, but Tom finds himself regularly losing time just staring at Bill’s or even some women’s hands, watching them move and touch and stroke. And Bill knows it.

He likes jewellery, likes shopping for it more than anything because it’s Bill’s personal mission in life to shop until he drops, but he loves driving Tom wild even more because that’s what they do. Both Tom and Bill _enjoy_ winding the other up, pushing the boundaries and flaunting what pushes buttons. When Bill dons his armour against the world in the morning, when he’s decided to make that day hot and heavy, he’ll be dripping with silver rings, delicate chains, or thick, hard leather cuffs, or… or whatever takes his fancy. He knows that Tom is always ready for it, that he can’t get enough of Bill’s hands when they’re adorned with priceless jewellery.

Tom loves it, though. Fantasies are nothing compared to the real thing, and Bill can be very amenable to making those dreams come true.

Unfortunately, it’s only his brain that’s on that level at the moment. His dick doesn’t seem inclined to join in after what just happened.

How does he feel? “Sore. Tired.” He does hurt. Everything usually does after a night like this, particularly if a concert came before that as well. His shoulders, his wrists, his fingers - they all throb with a dull ache that tells him he pulled and pushed much, much more than he remembers. Even his back and thighs hurt from spreading wide for Bill. “Drained.”

Sex is a full-bodied experience for him, and sometimes, his body likes to remind him of it afterwards.

“Do you want something for it?” On the dressing table, Bill’s already got a box of tablets for him and a bottle of water from the mini fridge. He was prepared.

“Yes.” Normally, he’d say no, or that he’d get it later, but right now, Tom’s tired of pretending. He wants to let Bill do what he needs to.

Aftercare is important for them. Bill never leaves him alone and abandoned after sex, not even to just curl up and sleep beside him. There’s always that wind down period afterwards, when Bill makes him check in, gives him pills or water, and wipes away the sweat and the slick from sex. It’s the rule - if there’s sex or play or a scene or discipline or anything even approaching any of those, there is aftercare. There may be talking, and there may be a shower or a bath, and maybe even food, but there’s _always_ touch and reassurance and love. Always.

And, if Tom’s honest, after tonight, he needs it. He can’t imagine how he’d feel if Bill up and left him to it.

The water’s cold, and Bill ends up holding the bottle for Tom as he drinks, kneeling beside the bed to help him as Tom is far too weak. Most of it would probably end up on the bed if he tried. But the pills go down easily and so does the water. Before he lets Bill pull the bottle away, he’s already drunk almost half.

“Easy, baby.” Bill smoothes a hand over his dreads, letting Tom know he’s not cross. “Let that go down first. You can have more, later.”

There might not be a later, though, that’s the thing. Tom can already feel the muzzy edges of drowsiness seep into his bones, stealing the strength from his muscles. He was pushed to the limit, mentally, physically, emotionally, and his body is telling him that enough is enough.

“Let it happen, Tom.” The phrase, used so often tonight, is much gentler this time. There’s no demand for him to speak or do anything. Just let sleep happen.

But he’s not giving up without at least a little bit of a fight. “Beside me?” It’s not even a full sentence, but Bill gets it. Of course he does. Tom doesn’t even need to open his eyes again to feel Bill slipping into the bed beside him, turning the lights off via the panel above the headboard. Plunged into darkness, the room instantly becomes smaller, much more intimate and close than it was before.

“Thank you.” He doesn’t know how else to articulate what he’s feeling to Bill, but he knows that his twin will get it, will understand it, although nobody else ever could.

Bill doesn’t respond with words. The gentle kiss against his cheek says it all as he drifts off to sleep.

 

**\---**

 

The next morning, Tom is the first one awake.

There’s no alarm or knock at the door that wakes him. Today is a lazy day before they head off on the road in the early hours of tomorrow morning. Instead, it’s just a natural process, rising up through the deep layers of sleep until he’s fully and completely aware of his body.

And of Bill, wrapped around him from behind.

The clock on the bedside table tells him it’s just past eleven - he slept for a good, solid nine or so hours. He feels like it. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t hurt, he doesn’t feel tired inside his bones.

He feels _content._ He feels… calm.

Last night made him feel good, made him sleep the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that tells him he’s worked through the problems of the last few weeks. He rarely remembers his dreams.

Bill is still fast asleep, breathing the deep and even way that tells Tom he won’t be disturbed if he gets out of bed, which is good.

The bathroom beckons his name.

Ten minutes later, Tom’s finished in the bathroom, (morning piss, teeth, and a few stolen squirts of Bill’s perfume because there’s no chance of finding deodorant without making a very large amount of noise in the bedroom), and is now dressed. In Bill’s suitcase in there, he’d found a pair of jeans, two shirts, underwear - all the things he’d need to for a quick change at a moment’s notice. They always carry spares in each other’s luggage.

Airlines have a tendency to lose baggage ridiculously often, and they learnt that lesson the hard way, and no matter how much Tom organises, sometimes it doesn’t work out. So now, they take precautions.

He picks up his phone from the bedside table – Bill was kind enough to put it on charge last night. When, Tom can’t remember, but Bill wouldn’t have left him without his precious phone. Tom needs it to keep him grounded, in contact with the outside world, and it’s also entertainment when they’re in those between times; before interviews, after concerts, during the travel to venues, before promotional signings. 

He checks the time – it’s only eleven thirty eight. Perfect timing. Tom  has a plan for this morning. He wants to say thank you to Bill, give him a sign of his absolute love and appreciation for what he did last night. What he’s been doing for the last few weeks, if Tom is honest.

 

**\---**

 

“Hi.” Tom places the tea on the bedside table. It steams gently in the sunlight, and Bill smiles. It’s a special, soft, sleepy smile that so very few people get to see. And right now, it belongs to Tom.

The strange, fluttery feeling from last night comes back in full force.

“Morning.” Bill reaches out a hand, and Tom takes it. “How are you feeling now?”

“Good.” It’s true. He feels so much more _free_ than he did yesterday, and it’s mostly down to Bill, so he can’t help the smile that comes unbidden. Last night will go down in his memories as one of their more interesting nights. Tom squeezes Bill’s hand. “You?”

“Amazing.” Patting the bed, Bill pulls himself upright. “Is that… Oh, I love you.”

Tom picked up Bill’s favourite, English Breakfast, one sugar, no milk. He even made sure it came with a saucer, because that’s how Bill prefers it. Partly because it’s makes it _an experience,_ he tells Tom, and partly because it’s so different from the usual paper or styrofoam cup they get on the road, cheap and hot tea or coffee inside that’s just basically brown water with foam on the top.

The barista downstairs was more than happy to make it for him, even before the coffee bar officially opened. She smiled, flirted with him, and Tom flirted back, and it felt _good._ For the first time in forever - even before he’d been put on restriction, Tom didn’t feel obliged to do more or to turn her away. Flirting is second nature to him - a glance here, changing the emphasis on a word; it’s lightning quick, requires him to be on the top of his game, and doesn’t mean a lot.

That’s something Tom has never understood about the romances Bill likes to watch or read. Flirting can be heavy and meaningful, a prelude to more, but nobody ever seems to understand that it can also be a way to make time pass. Sometimes, it’s just two people, hints and promises that they both know will never be kept.

And besides. The cup she handed Tom wasn’t for him, and once he left, making his way back to the lift, she’d gone back to her work. If he’d taken it seriously, no doubt she’d have left her number on the napkin she’d handed him as well as following him out of the room with her gaze.  

Nah.

Tom flirted because it felt good, and so did she. That was all there needed to be said, really.

The long sip that Bill takes of the tea puts a smile on Tom’s face all over again. Bill might like to spoil him, but Tom can spoil right back when he wants to. The _i love you_ was just something extra that Tom will revel in for a while. He takes his seat, perching on the edge of the bed, enjoying the sun that blazes through the curtains.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Tom.” Bill reaches out for Tom’s hand again. “You did well.” His pride is obvious, and Tom can feel it, warm against his heart. Bill is happy with him again; he’s _proud_ that Tom gave in and let himself feel and didn’t fight for control. He went down for Bill, and that was hard, but it felt right then, and it feels even more right now.

He squeezes Bill’s hand. It’s another _i love you,_ and he does. Oh, how he does.

They sit in silence, the kind of quiet that’s taken years of being together to generate. Just to be, just to exist in each other’s company and enjoy it is a skill. Tom used to want to talk, to move, to be doing _something,_ because being silent and still meant bad things, meant something was wrong or different. Bill’s taught him, by example and by strapping him to a wide variety of gags, to let himself stop talking and thinking and trying to control things and just _be._

By the time Bill’s finished his tea, Tom is relaxed, quiet, and completely willing to follow his wordless command to strip back down to naked skin and climb back into bed. The sheets are warm this time, and Bill is too; warm and naked and oh, so ready.

Today, they’ll spend the whole day just doing exactly what they want. It’s going to be awesome.

“Be a good boy for me.” Once again Bill’s enticing him to be obedient, and this time, Tom isn’t going to buck that control. 

“I will,” he whispers.

There’s no answer to that out loud. Bill puts a hand on the back of his head, bringing him close.

Tomorrow is a long way away, and Tom doesn’t care. He’s all about today, right now. And so is Bill.

 


End file.
